THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


RICHARD  BALDOCK 


AN  ACCOUNT  OF  SOME  EPISODES  IN 
HIS  CHILDHOOD,  YOUTH,  AND  EARLY 
MANHOOD,  AND  OF  THE  ADVICE 
THAT  WAS  FREELY  OFFERED  TO  HIM 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1919 


COPYRIGHT  1918 
By  DODD,  MKAD  AiSD  COMPANY    IMO. 


6,6$ 

/•13-fr 


TO 
MRS.  R.  C.   LEHMANN 


868301 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I  AT  BEECHURST  VICARAGE    ...  1 

II  AN  ENTRY  AND  A  DEPARTURE    .        .  16 

III  FRIENDS  AND  OCCUPATIONS  ...  22 

IV  RICHARD  LEARNS  His  LETTERS  .        .  35 
V  MRS.  HEARING'S  SCHOOL    ...  49 

VI  RICHES  INNUMERABLE         ...  62 

VII  RICHARD  PAYS  A  VISIT        ...  76 

VIII  AT  PARADINE  PARK      4.        .        .        .  93 

IX  MRS.    MOGGERIDGE    MAKE.5    PRESENTS  .  108 

X  RICHARD'S  RETURN      .   *     .        .        .  122 

XI  THE  Two  DISPLEASURES     .        .        .  135 

XII  A  DISAPPOINTMENT      .        .        .        .146 

XIII  RICHARD  MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND       .  159 

XIV  MEAKING  COMES  HOME       .        .        .  172 

XV  RICHARD  READS  AND  RIDES  .        .        .  190 

XVI  A  FAIRY  OF  THE  FOREST       .        .        .  205 

XVII  THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  VICAR       .  218 

M 

XVIII  AT  BEECHURST  HALL  ....  233 

XIX  THE  SQUIRE  TALKS      .        .        .        .246 

XX  A  COUNTESS  AND  A  CONJURER     .        .  258 

XXI  RICHARD  MAKES  A  DECISION       .        .  275 

XXII  How  THE  DECISION  WAS  RECEIVED     .  291 

XXIII  MEAKING'S  PROPOSAL  ....  303 

XXIV  DISCUSSIONS 318 

XXV  Two  SIDES  OF  A  QUESTION  .        ,        .  334 

y 


VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XXVI  THE  THIRD  SIDE  . 

XXVII  A  NEW  LIGHT       . 

XXVIII  THE  END  OF  THE  MATTER 

XXIX  TEN  YEARS  LATER 

XXX  IN  CURZON  STREET 

XXXI  TROUBLED  DAYS   . 

XXXII  THE  END  OF  THE  STORY 


PASK 

343 
357 
368 
383 
397 
409 
421 


RICHARD  BALDOCK 


CHAPTER   I 
AT  BEECHURST  VICARAGE 

"  MY  dear ! "  said  Mrs.  Moggeridge,  decisively,  "  I've 
brought  her,  and  there's  an  end  of  it.  If  there  is 
any  difficulty  about  putting  her  up  in  the  house — but 
I  don't  see  how  there  can  be  with  all  these  rooms — 
she  can  go  to  the  inn — if  there  is  a  respectable  inn 
in  this  out-of-the-way  place.  But  a  maid  I  must  have 
to  help  me  into  my  clothes." 

She  spread  her  voluminous  silk  skirts  over  the  sofa 
in  her  sister's  drawing-room,  patted  the  smooth 
plaits  of  her  elaborate  chignon,  and  looked  about  her. 
The  room  was  a  charming  one,  long  and  low  and 
oak-raftered,  with  broad  latticed  windows  looking  on 
to  the  greenest  of  gardens,  but  it  was  furnished 
sparsely  with  a  rosewood  suite  upholstered  in  crimson, 
an  old  cottage  piano,  a  round  table  upon  which 
were  displayed  a  set  of  ivory  chessmen  and  a  dozen 
books  symmetrically  disposed,  and  very  little  else. 
The  walls  were  panelled  and  painted  white.  A  few 
chalk  drawings  of  heads  and  impossible  landscapes 
hung  upon  them.  There  was  a  finely  carved  mantel- 
piece and  a  deep  hearth  with  iron  dogs  and  an  elaborate 
fire-back. 

"  My  dear  Jessica,"  pursued  Mrs.  Moggeridge,  wav- 
ing a  green-gloved  hand  around  her,  "  I  should  turn 
this  room  completely  inside  out  if  it  were  mine.  I 

I 


8  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

should  have  those  ugly  wooden  beams  prpperly  ceiled 
in,  strip  the  woodwork  off  the  walls,  and  cover  them 
with  maroon  silk  finished  off  with  a  gold  beading,  put 
jn  a  white  marble  mantelpiece  with  a  steel  and  ormolu 
grate,  and  have  a  French  window  instead  of  those 
ridiculous  diamond-paned  things.  The  furniture  I  gave 
you  as  a  wedding-present  is  good,  but  more  is 
wanted.  I  think  I  will  give  you  a  gilt  console 
table.  But  you  cannot  do  much  with  a  room  like 
this.  The  best  furniture  you  could  buy  would  hardly 
make  it  habitable.  As  it  is  at  present  it  is  absurdly 
old-fashioned,  grotesque.  Yes,  gilt  is  badly  wanted, 
and  a  green  carpet  with  ferns  and  roses.  I  flatter 
myself  that  I  know  at  a  glance  how  to  set  any  room 
right." 

"  Dear  Henrietta,  you  are  very  generous,"  said  her 
sister.  "  But  I  like  the  old  room.  I  sometimes  think 
that  it  was  a  mistake  to  turn  out  all  the  old-fashioned 
furniture  that  belonged  to  John's  grandfather,  although 
it  was  certainly  shabby  and  had  not  been  looked  after 
properly." 

Mrs.  Moggeridge  held  up  hands  of  horror.  "  Jes- 
sica ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  You  are  a  Goth — a  Vandal. 
That  rubbish!  When  you  wrote  and  gave  me  a  de- 
scription of  it,  I  ordered  the  carriage  and  drove 
straight  to  Willows*.  '  A  suite  of  drawing-room  furni- 
ture at  once,'  I  cried, l  suitable  for  the  drawing-room  of 
a  country  rectory,  to  be  occupied  by  a  lady  of  refine- 
ment. Details  may  be  left  for  the  future,  but  the  suite 
must  go  off  to-day  without  fail.'  And  this  is  the  result. 
You  have  got  something  that  you  need  not  be  ashamed 
of  asking  your  friends  to  sit  down  upon.  But  I  am  not 
satisfied,  Jessica.  I  must  do  more  for  you.  You  are 
my  only  sister  and  I  am  rich.  A  gilt  console  table  you 


AT  BEECHURST  VICARAGE  3 

shall  have.  There  is  one  in  the  breakfast  room  at  Para- 
dine  Park  that  will  do.  I  can  replace  it.  And  a  chan- 
delier. Ah,  but  you  have  no  gas.  What  deprivations 
you  suffer,  my  darling !  Jessica,  dearest,  do  you  think 
you  were  wise?  Love  is  a  great  thing,  and  I  know  you 
were  in  love.  /  never  was,  I  own  it — to  you.  But  look 
what  I  have  got,  and  what  you  have  to  put  up  with. 
My  pretty  little  Jessica!  And  you  might  have  mar- 
ried  " 

"  Please  don't,  Etta,  dear,"  pleaded  her  sister.  "  I 
do  not  regret  anything.  My  husband  is  wise  and  good, 
and " 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  broke  in  the  other.  "  But  a  poor 
country  clergyman !  Well,  you  have  made  your  choice. 
But  is  he  everything  you  thought  him?  Men  so  sel- 
dom are.  Is  he  severe?  From  your  letter  I  thought 
he  was  severe." 

"  He  is  wise  and  good,"  repeated  her  sister.  "  I  look 
up  to  him,  and  it  is  my  duty — and  my  pleasure  too — to 
obey  him.  Dear  Henrietta,  I  wish  you  had  done  what 
I  asked  you  and  left  Foster  behind.  He  made  such  a 
point  of  it,  and  I  fear  he  will  be  displeased.  He  is  not 
accustomed  to  have  his  wishes  set  aside.  He  does  not 
express  them  without  careful  thought,  and  you  know  I 
told  you  his  reasons." 

"  And  very  ridiculous  reasons  they  were,"  said  Mrs. 
Moggeridge.  "  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  I  wish 
to  put  anybody  to  expense  on  my  account.  The  man 
might  have  known  that,  or  if  not  you  could  have  told 
him.  You  know  what  I  am.  When  it  was  first  sug- 
gested that  I  should  come  here  I  fully  intended  to  pay 
my  way.  Neither  you  nor  your  husband  shall  be  loser 
by  me;  but  naturally  under  these  circumstances  I  can- 
not consent  to  be  dictated  to  as  to  how  I  am  to  travel, 


4  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

and  the  notion  of  my  travelling  anywhere  without  Fos- 
ter is  absurd." 

"  Indeed,  Henrietta,"  replied  the  other,  with  some 
spirit,  "  if  you  care  to  come  and  visit  me  you  come 
as  my  guest — mine  and  my  husband's.  You  would  give 
him  very  great  offence  if  you  suggested  paying  your 
entertainment.  I  accept  your  presents  because  I  know 
you  have  always  loved  me,  and  we  have  been  very  much 
to  each  other.  But  you  must  not  look  upon  us  as  your 
pensioners." 

"  My  darling  child,"  said  the  fashionable  woman, 
speaking  with  great  tenderness,  "  you  must  not  take 
amiss  what  I  say.  I  speak  my  mind,  to  you  and  every- 
body. But  the  chief  thing  is  that  we  are  to  be  together 
for  a  time,  just  as  we  used  to  be  when  I  was  a  tall 
girl  and  you  were  a  little  tiny  thing,  in  the  old  home. 
I  would  cheerfully  eat  bread  and  drink  water  to  be  with 
you,  and  I  should  expect  Foster  to  do  the  same.  Noth- 
ing shall  come  between  us.  And  now  tell  me,  my  pre- 
cious one,  you  have  everything  you  want,  you  are  quite 
prepared,  you  are  not  dreading  the  time  that  is  com- 
ing to  you  ?  " 

The  pale  face  of  the  younger  woman  flushed  and  her 
eyes  shone.  "  It  will  be  the  greatest  happiness,"  she 
said.  "  I  dream  of  it  night  and  day." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  other,  her  gentleness  of  voice  con- 
trasting strangely  with  her  former  sharp  and  decisive 
speech.  "  If  I  had  only  had  a  child !  I  should  have 
loved  it,  perhaps  as  much,  dear,  as  I  loved  you  when 
you  were  a  baby.  Perhaps  more,  though  I  do  not  think 

that  possible.  But  one's  own  child !  I  should  have 

had  someone  to  spend  my  riches  on.  I  sometimes  grow 
tired  of  spending  them  on  myself."  She  recovered  her 
sprightly  tone  after  a  short  pause.  "  Well,  that's  over 


AT  BEECHURST  VICARAGE  5 

and  done  with,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  certainly  never 
marry  again,  and  I  get  a  great  deal  of  fun  out  of  my 
money.  There  will  be  plenty  left  for  your  child,  Jes- 
sica. He  shall  have  most  of  it  when  I'm  gone — though 
I  hope  he  will  have  to  wait  some  time  for  it  yet.  And 
he  shall  go  to  Rugby — papa  was  a  Rugby — and  to 
Oxford,  the  same  college  as  papa's.  I  decided  that  my 
boy  should  do  that  if  I  ever  had  one,  and  I  will  do  the 
same  for  yours.  I  pledge  myself  to  that." 

Her  sister  smiled  faintly.  "  Perhaps  it  will  not  be 
a  boy,"  she  said. 

"  If  not,"  replied  Mrs.  Moggeridge,  "  it  will  be  all  the 
better — in  this  case.  /  wanted  a  boy  because  I  made  up 
my  mind  that  Joseph  should  have  a  baronetcy — pos- 
sibly a  peerage — as  he  no  doubt  would  have  done  if  he 
had  lived — and  I  wished  for  an  heir.  But  a  girl! — a 
baby  girl  is  the  sweetest  plaything.  And  when  she 
grows  up  I  will  take  her  about,  and  I  will  see  to  it  that 
she,  at  any  rate,  does  not  marry  a  poor  country  clergy- 
man." 

Mrs.  Moggeridge  had  not  observed  the  door  open  be- 
hind her  as  she  made  this  last  speech.  "  A  poor  coun- 
try clergyman ! "  echoed  a  deep  voice  by  her  side. 
"  Here  is  one  who  bids  you  welcome  to  whatever  his 
house  can  afford." 

"  Lord  bless  the  man !  "  she  exclaimed,  turning  round 
in  a  flurry,  but  not  apparently  discomposed  in  her 
mind.  "  You  gave  me  quite  a  start.  And  so  you  are 
the  Reverend  John  Baldock.  Well,  you've  got  the 
greatest  treasure  I  ever  had  or  ever  shall  have,  with  all 
my  riches,  and  I  don't  know  that  you  should  have  had 
her  if  I  had  been  at  home  to  prevent  it.  I  hope  you 
value  her  and  treat  her  tenderly." 

The  man  who  stood  before  her,  regarding  her  with 


6  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

dark  serious  eyes  in  which,  in  spite  of  his  words  of 
welcome,  there  appeared  no  hint  of  indulgence  towards 
her  freedom  of  speech,  could  have  been  little  accustomed 
to  such  a  form  of  address.  His  face  was  set  in  a  stern 
mould.  The  bones  were  prominent,  the  rather  thin 
lips,  pressed  together,  the  eyes  deep  set,  direct  and 
searching.  To  his  wife,  looking  anxiously  at  him  and 
then  at  her  sister,  came  a  sense  of  crisis.  These  two 
characters  by  her  explored  to  their  depths  but  to  each 
other  unknown,  how  would  they  adjust  themselves  to  a 
common  measure  of  agreement?  There  must  be  opposi- 
tion. The  light  cement  of  social  complacency  would 
hardly  hold  against  the  pull  of  their  natures,  that  of 
the  one  authoritative,  dominating,  that  of  the  other 
fearlessly  asserting  a  wayward  independence. 

John  Baldock  turned  to  his  wife.  His  eyes  softened. 
"  You  have  not  regretted  giving  your  life  to  a  poor 
country  clergyman,  Jessica,"  he  said ;  and  then,  taking 
her  hand,  "  We  find  our  happiness  in  a  common  hope 
and  a  common  pursuit.  We  do  not  desire  worldly 
riches.  We  have  enough  and  are  content.  You  will  for- 
give our  inability  to  provide  for  the  maidservant  you 
proposed  to  bring  with  you.  The  simplicity  of  our 
lives  and  our  domestic  arrangements  would  make  such 
an  addition  to  our  household  inexpedient.  We  shall 
hope  to  make  the  loss  of  her  services  of  no  account  to 
you." 

"  Oh,  but  I've  brought  her,"  said  Mrs.  Moggeridge, 
lightly.  "  As  I  told  Jessica,  I  cannot  possibly  be  with- 
out Foster.  If  you  cannot  do  with  her  in  the  house — 
and  that  is  a  matter  for  you  to  decide — she  must  find 
some  sort  of  lodging  for  herself.  She  is  quite  capable 
of  doing  that,  or  ought  to  be,  for  she  is  forty-five  years 
old  if  r,  day,  and  has  been  jilted  by  a  postman." 


If  Mrs.  Moggeridge  had  any  idea  that  the  last  piece 
of  information,  airily  thrown  out,  would  relax  the 
obvious  tension  she  was  mistaken.  There  were  storrn 
signals  out  on  John  Baldock's  brow,  and  he  regarded 
her  as  if  he  could  hardly  believe  his  ears.  Then  he 
threw  a  look  at  his  wife  and  his  face  cleared  a  little. 

"  We  could  not  consent  to  that,"  he  said,  courteously. 
"  I  have  no  doubt  that  her  accommodation  can  be  ar- 
ranged for,  as  you  have "  he  hesitated,  and  then 

out  it  came  with  a  flash  of  the  eye — "  disregarded  my 
wishes  in  the  matter." 

"  My  dear  John,"  said  Mrs.  Moggeridge,  not  at  all 
abashed — "  I  shall  call  you  John  and  you  must  call  me 
Henrietta — when  your  wishes  are  so  unreasonable  you 
must  expect  them  to  be  disregarded.  Foster  will  give 
no  trouble — not  half  as  much  as  I  shall — and  anybody 
who  wants  the  pleasure  of  my  society  must  put  up  with 
her.  Let  us  now  set  the  subject  aside  altogether.  You 
have  had  your  say  and  I  have  had  mine,  and,  having 
come  to  a  compromise  like  sensible  people,  we  shall  no 
doubt  be  all  the  better  friends." 

John  Baldock's  view  of  the  compromise,  if  he  felt  any 
inclination  to  express  it,  was  cut  short  by  the  entrance 
of  an  old  servant,  who  announced  with  singular  abrupt- 
ness that  tea  had  been  on  the  table  for  ten  minutes  and 
would  get  cold  if  not  consumed  at  once,  and  then  took 
her  departure. 

They  went  into  the  dining-room ;  where  a  very  plain 
meal  was  set  out  on  a  round  table.  The  room  was 
larger  than  the  one  they  had  left.  It  was  panelled,  and 
the  mantelpiece  carved  in  oak.  The  most  part  of  the 
furniture  was  old  and  not  very  well  cared  for,  but  its 
fitness  to  the  room  was  so  marked  in  comparison  with 
the  incongruities  they  had  left  behind  them  that  it 


8  HICHARD  BALDOCK 

struck  even  the  eye  of  Mrs.  Moggeridge,  attuned  to 
the  fashions  of  the  time. 

"  There  is  an  air  of  repose  about  these  old-fashioned 
rooms,"  she  remarked  as  she  entered,  "  that  is  not  al- 
together unpleasing.  If  you  had  a  fine  mahogany 
suite  here,  and  the  walls  hung  with  oil-paintings  in  mas- 
sive frames,  the  room  would  at  once  become  impossible. 
Perhaps  it  is  better  as  it  is.  The  incongruity  is  less 
startling.  When  they  were  new  these  pieces  of  furni- 
ture were  no  doubt  considered  very  handsome.  And 
they  are  well  made,  although,  of  course,  hopelessly  out 
of  date." 

John  Baldock  waited  until  she  had  finished,  and  then 
bent  his  head  devoutly  and  repeated  a  long  grace,  saying 
the  words  as  if  he  meant  them.  When  this  came  to  an 
end  and  they  had  taken  their  seats,  he  said : 

"  All  the  furniture  in  the  house,  with  the  exception 
of  what  you  were  kind  enough  to  give  to  Jessica,  was 
left  to  me  by  my  grandfather.  No  doubt  it  is  old- 
fashioned,  but  it  serves  our  needs,  and  I  think  nothing 
of  such  things." 

"  Oh,  but  you  should  think  something  of  them,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Moggeridge ;  "  the  eye  should  be  cultivated 
as  well  as  the  mind.  For  my  part  I  think  a  pretty 
room  and  bright  colours  make  a  deal  of  difference  to 
your  outlook  in  life.  With  them  you  are  cheerful  and 
gay.  In  a  dull,  old-fashioned  room  you  are  gloomy, 
morose.  At  least,  it  is  so  with  me." 

"  One's  thoughts  should  be  set  on  higher  things,"  re- 
plied the  clergyman.  "  With  the  eye  of  the  mind  fixed 
on  eternities  worldly  surroundings  sink  into  nothing- 
ness." 

"  My  dear  John,"  said  Mrs.  Moggeridge,  earnestly, 
"  may  I  beg  of  you,  as  long  as  I  remain  an  inmate  of 


AT  BEECHURST  VICARAGE  9 

your  house,  to  treat  me  as  one  of  the  family  and  not  as 
a  person  to  be  preached  at.  Such  a  speech  as  that, 
excellent  as  it  would  be  in  the  pulpit,  is  surely  out  of 
place  at  the  tea-table.  Religion — by  all  means.  But 
there  is  a  time  for  everything." 

John  Baldock  accepted  the  challenge.  "  I  must  tell 
you  at  once,"  he  said,  "  that  in  this  household  we  do  not 
relegate  our  religion  to  fixed  hours  and  places.  We 
make  it  our  chief  thought,  and  strive  to  bring  it  into 
everything  we  say  or  do.  We  should  be  unfaithful  to 
our  calling  if  we  did  otherwise." 

"Well,"  replied  Mrs.  Moggeridge,  "every  man's 
house  is  his  castle,  and  if  you  prefer  to  treat  yours  as 
a  church  I  suppose  you  have  a  right  to.  You  must  do 
as  you  please.  Only  I  must  say  that,  fond  as  I  am  of 
church  on  a  Sunday  morning  and  occasionally  on  Sun- 
day afternoon,  I  should  not  care  to  spend  every  hour  of 
every  day  there,  and  I  hope  you  will  remember  that." 

John  Baldock  made  no  reply,  but  the  set  of  his  mouth 
and  his  eyes  bent  steadily  on  his  plate  showed  his  dis- 
approval, and  soon  afterwards  he  retired  to  his  study, 
leaving  the  sisters  together. 

"  Will  you  come  upstairs  ?  "  said  Jessica,  shyly,  "  I 
should  like  to  show  you.  But  you  won't  be  scornful, 
Etta,  dear.  Everything  is  so  different  to  what  it  would 
have  been  in  your  case.  You  know  we  are  not  rich,  and 
John  thinks  it  wrong  to  spend  more  than  we  are  obliged 
on  ourselves." 

Mrs.  Moggeridge  kissed  her  warmly.  "  My  pet,"  she 
said,  "  you  know  you  have  only  to  come  to  me  for  any- 
thing you  want." 

They  went  upstairs  to  a  pleasant  room  facing  west 
towards  the  now  setting  sun.  There  was  a  little  old 
cradle  in  the  corner.  "  It  was  the  one  in  which  John 


10  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

was  rocked  as  a  baby,"  said  Jessica.  "  He  would  not 
let  me  have  a  pretty  cot." 

"  Oh,  my  darling,  this  is  dreadful !  "  exclaimed  her 
sister.  "  You  can  never  use  that  old  thing.  I  will 
write  to  London  at  once  for  a  cot  and  something  nice 
to  cover  it." 

"  Thank  you,  dear,"  said  the  other,  quietly.  "  But  I 
will  do  with  this.  John  likes  to  have  it  so." 

She  went  to  an  old  tallboy  chest  of  drawers  and  drew 
from  it  the  little  garments,  of  all  others  so  full  of 
meaning.  Not  a  stitch  in  them  but  tells  of  a  hope  or 
a  fear  or  an  impulse  of  love  towards  the  new  life  that  is 
coming  into  the  world. 

They  were  very  plain  but  beautifully  made.  She 
put  them  into  her  sister's  hand.  Some  true  impulse 
from  the  depth  of  things  caused  the  older  woman  to 
refrain  from  an  easy  offer  to  better  them.  "  Ah,  the 
sweet  little  soul ! "  she  said. 

Tears  came  in  a  sudden  gush  from  the  other.  She 
dried  them  quickly  and  tried  to  smile.  "  I  can't  help 
it,"  she  said.  "  It  is  because  I  am  so  happy." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Henrietta,  concernedly.  "  You  are 
not  happy.  You  didn't  cry  because  you  were  happy. 
What  is  it,  Jessica — dearest — my  little  sister?  " 

"  I  suppose  it  is  because  I  am  afraid." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said  again,  wisely.  "  You  are  not 
afraid.  You  are  not  afraid.  At  least,  you  are  not 
afraid  of  what  is  coming  to  you.  Are  you  afraid  of 
anything  else  ?  " 

Jessica  turned  from  her  almost  petulantly,  and  busied 
herself  about  the  drawers.  "  No,  of  course  not,"  she 
said.  "  Henrietta,  you  must  make  allowances  for  me. 
I  cry  for  nothing  at  all." 

The  old  woman  who  had  announced  tea  an  hour  be- 


AT  BEECHURST  VICARAGE  IT 

fore  came  into  the  room.  She  did  not  knock,  or 
apologize  for  her  intrusion.  Neither  did  she  retire 
quickly,  but  went  to  a  cupboard  in  another  corner  of 
the  room  and  began  turning  over  household  linen. 

There  was  a  pause.  Mrs.  Moggeridge  looked  at  her 
sister,  and  saw  her  disturbed,  her  eyes  cast  down.  She 
drew  herself  up  sharply.  "  Do  you  think  you  could 
make  it  convenient  to  leave  the  room  at  once?  "  she  said. 

The  old  woman  turned  round  with  a  folded  sheet  in 
her  hand.  She  seemed  completely  nonplussed,  and  stood 
staring,  her  face  a  mottled  red. 

"  Your  mistress  and  I  are  talking,"  said  Mrs.  Mog- 
geridge, "  and  you  came  in  as  if  the  place  belonged  to 
you,  without  a  with  your  leave  or  by  your  leave.  If 
a  servant  of  mine  behaved  in  that  way  she  shouldn't 
sleep  a  night  longer  in  my  house." 

Mrs.  Baldock  looked  up.  "  Sarah  is  accustomed 
to  come  in  and  out  like  that,"  she  said. 

M I  am  not  accustomed  to  it,"  replied  her  sister ; 
"  and  I  beg  that  she  won't  do  it  so  long  as  I  am  in 
the  house." 

The  old  woman  bridled  up  and  found  her  tongue. 
"  I  nursed  the  master  in  these  arms,"  she  said,  trembling 
a  little,  "  and  I've  been  with  him  ever  since  he  was  an 
infant.  I  wish  to  be  respectful  to  my  betters,  ma'am, 
as  becomes  a  professing  Christian,  but " 

"  Will  you  kindly  leave  the  room?  "  interrupted  Mrs. 
Moggeridge,  relentlessly.  "  Your  mistress  and  I  are 
engaged.  Show  your  respect  and  your  Christianity 
by  doing  what  you're  told." 

The  old  woman  retired  with  black  looks,  directed 
chiefly  towards  her  mistress. 

"  What  an  intolerable  old  creature !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Moggeridge,  when  th«  door  had  closed  behind  her. 


12  RICHARD  BALDOOK 

"  My  dear  Jessica,  the  fact  is  you  are  choked  up  with 
religion  in  this  house.  I  have  always  found  religion  a 
most  dangerous  acquirement  for  the  lower  orders,  and 
for  servants  especially  so.  They  do  not  understand 
it  as  you  and  I  do,  and  it  turns  their  heads.  If  I  were 
you  I  should  get  rid  of  that  woman  instantly." 

Mrs.  Baldock  laughed  rather  drearily.  "  I  think  if 
I  were  to  suggest  that  to  John  he  would  never  recover 
from  the  shock,"  she  said.  "  And  I  doubt  if  she  would 
go  even  if  he  told  her  to." 

"  But,  my  dearest  Jessica,  you  do  not  mean  that 
you  allow  your  husband  to  dictate  to  you  in  domestic 
matters?  Why,  when  Joseph  was  alive,  autocratic  as 
he  was,  he  would  never  have  thought  of  interfering  in 
such  things.  He  did  once  inquire  after  a  housemaid  I 
had  dismissed  for  rouging  her  cheeks.  He  said  he 
missed  her  bright  face  about  the  house.  The  hussy! 
But  that  was  the  only  occasion.  I  should  not  have 
stood  it  if  it  had  been  otherwise.  You  really  must 
put  your  foot  down  about  such  things,  Jessica,  if  your 
life  is  to  be  a  satisfactory  one." 

Her  sister  made  no  reply.  She  was  sitting  by  the 
open  window.  She  looked  out  on  to  the  green  world 
of  summer,  and  her  look  was  patient  and  sad. 

Mrs.  Moggeridge  sat  down  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  table  which  stood  in  the  window.  "  Jessica,"  she 
said,  "  your  face  ought  not  to  be  like  that.  You  have 
a  great  happiness  coming  to  you.  Tell  me  what  it  is 
that  is  troubling  you." 

"  A  great  happiness  !  "  she  repeated.  "  I  cannot 
grasp  it.  I  feel  that  there  is  a  great  change  coming 
over  my  life,  but  nothing  tells  me  that  I  shall  gain 
happiness  by  it.  And  I  want  happiness,  Etta.  I  am 
young,  and  I  want  happiness." 


IS 

"  But,  dearest,  when  I  had  your  first  letter  at  Luxor, 
two  years  ago,  you  were  happy — really  happy,  and 
looking  forward  to  your  quiet  life  here.  I  saw  that  it 
was  so,  and  it  made  up  to  me  for  what  I  thought  you 
were  missing.  For  I  will  not  disguise  from  you  that  I 
had  greater  things  in  view  for  my  only  sister  than 
a  marriage  such  as  you  announced  to  me.  What  has 
occurred  to  change  you  so?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  have  changed,  except  that  I  am 
older.  Oh,  much  older.  I  said  that  I  was  young  and 
wanted  happiness.  But  I  am  not  young  any  longer. 
And  yet  I  still  want  happiness." 

"  Then  you  have  not  got  it.  That  is  very  plain.  And 
you  ought  to  have  it.  You  have  been  only  two  years 
married.  Time  knocks  the  bloom  off  every  romance, 
but  not  so  quickly  as  that  if  there  is  a  strong  founda- 
tion for  it.  Jessica,  you  are  disappointed  in  your 
husband." 

The  younger  woman  threw  out  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  Etta,"  she  said,  "  do  not  say  that.  Indeed, 
you  must  not.  It  is  myself  I  am  disappointed  in.  You 
drag  everything  out  of  me.  I  should  not  have  told  you, 
but  I  cannot  allow  you  to  blame  John.  He  is  good  and 
wise.  I  told  you  so." 

"  Yes.  You  have  repeated  that  phrase.  You  cling 
to  it.  Is  it  the  only  thing  you  have  to  cling  to,  after 
two  years  of  married  life?  Good!  Of  course  he  is 
good  in  one  sense — a  clergyman!  Is  he  good  to  you? 
Does  he  value  your  qualities?  Is  he  humble  in  the  face 
of  your  goodness?  Is  he  thankful  for  it?  Or  is  he  try- 
ing all  the  time  to  bring  you  into  subjection  to  some 
absurd  religious  standard  of  his  own  ?  " 

"  Henrietta,  you  have  a  sharp  tongue.  You  distort 
things." 


14  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  You  have  to  gee  things  before  you  can  distort 
them." 

"  I  knew  what  his  views  were  before  I  married  him. 
I  believed  in  them.  I  thought  they  were  noble,  and  I 
thought  that  with  his  help  I  should  be  able  to  live  up 
to  his  high  ideals.  I  have  failed  and  I  am  miserable. 
And  now  you  have  the  truth." 

"  He  makes  you  miserable." 

"  No,  it  is  not  that.    Do  not  say  so." 

"  I  do  say  so.  I  know  what  you  were  at  home-. 
Sweet  and  unselfish,  always  smiling — smiling  out  of  a 
pure,  kind  heart — never  an  unworthy  thought.  Oh,  I 
have  eyes  to  see  beauty  of  character  though  I  don't 
possess  it.  I  wish  I  did.  I'm  endowed  with  riches  and 
an  easy,  selfish  good-nature  instead — and  penetration — 
yes,  certainly  penetration.  Your  husband  is  not  wise 
if  he  is  blind  to  your  goodness — or  good.  He  is  most 
wickedly  foolish  in  trying  to  run  your  nature  into  hia 
own  harsh  mould." 

"  I  will  not  talk  of  him  in  that  way.  He  is  not  like 
that.  He  has  shown  his  trust  in  me  by  asking  me  to 
live  on  his  high  level.  He  believed  that  I  could  do  it, 
and  I  thought  so  too.  But  now  I  know  that  I  cannot. 
I  am  losing  heart.  I  cry  as  often  as  I  smile  when  I 
think  of  my  little  child  that  is  coming.  At  first  perhaps 
a  great  joy — but  oh,  I  am  not  even  sure  of  that.  May 
I  pour  out  my  love  on  my  tiny  helpless  little  baby? 
Or  must  I  stifle  it  as  I  am  taught  to  stifle  other  im- 
pulses I  thought  natural  and  even  good  ?  " 

"  Jessica,  dearest,  you  frighten  me.  The  man  must 
be  a  monster  of  bigoted  cruelty." 

"  No.  But  I  must  go  on,  now  that  I  have  revealed 
what  I  never  thought  to  have  let  fall.  I  am  not  allowed 
to  love  him  as  I  would  have  loved  him,  with  passion  and 


AT  BEECHURST  VICARAGE  15 

joy.  It  would  be  idolatry,  displeasing  of  God.  He  has 
such  self-control.  He  asks  nothing  of  me  that  he  does 
not  impose  upon  himself.  He  loves  me  passionately. 
I  have  divined  it.  But  he  holds  himself  back.  His  God 
is  terrible.  There,  I  have  said  it.  Death  and  judgment 
are  fearful  to  me  now,  and  I  loved  God  before,  and 
thought  I  knew  Him.  And  as  the  years  go  on,  and  the 
little  child  whom  I  must  not  fondle  overmuch  lest  I 
make  it  too  dependent  on  my  love,  grows  out  of  baby- 
hood, I  must  see  it  trained  and  bent  to  a  shape  I  am 
too  weak  to  wear;  and  I  must  carry  a  weight  on  my 
mothers  heart  and  show  sternness  where  I  would  be  all 
pity.  And  who  knows  what  will  come  later  still?  Oh, 
I  have  thought  of  it  all,  through  long  nights  and  days. 
The  burden  is  too  much  for  me.  And  there  is  no  one  to 
share  it." 

She  broke  down  and  sobbed  convulsively.  Mrs.  Mog- 
geridge  looked  out  into  space  with  wide  eyes.  "  The 
man  has  a  devil,"  she  said  under  her  breath. 


CHAPTER    II 

AN  ENTRY  AND  A  DEPARTURE 

OUTSIDE  the  room  where  Jessica  Baldock  lay  dying 
the  sun  drew  long  shadows  across  the  grass  of  the  once 
trim  lawns,  now  a  dewy  tangle  of  grass  and  clover; 
and  all  round  the  unkempt  flower  garden,  more  beautiful 
in  its  wild  state  than  ever  it  had  been  in  its  days  of 
prosperity,  stretched  the  great  forest,  mile  after  mile 
of  glade,  woodland,  and  open  heath.  For  hundreds, 
perhaps  thousands,  of  years  the  trees  of  the  forest  had 
swung  their  green  branches  into  the  blue  skies  of  spring, 
turned  red  and  brown  and  gold  in  the  autumn  and  shed 
their  dead  leaves  in  winter,  their  glory  departed,  their 
loss  unregarded.  And  the  human  life  that  had  bloomed 
for  so  short  a  time  in  their  shadow  was  drawing  to  its 
end,  not,  like  them,  to  blossom  again,  unless  it  were  in 
the  more  fruitful  soil  of  an  unknown  country.  The  in- 
explicable wastefulness  of  nature,  careless  of  age  or 
youth  or  sorrow,  was  at  work.  Out  of  the  millions  of 
seeds  that  had  fallen  to  the  earth  every  autumn  from 
the  trees  in  the  forest  one  or  two  here  and  there  had 
perpetuated  the  growth  from  which  they  had  sprung. 
The  rest  had  perished.  What  was  one  human  life,  still 
young  and  sweet,  in  face  of  this  lavish  mechanism  of 
reproduction  ?  A  new  life  had  been  born  into  the  world, 
and  the  life  that  had  produced  it  was  fading  into 
stillness. 

The  doctor  had  given  his  verdict.     Mrs.  Moggeridge 
had  seen  him  in  the  bare  drawing-room,  that  monument 

19 


AN  ENTRY  AND  A  DEPARTURE          17 

of  her  own  incongruous  modernity,  strangely  insignifi- 
cant of  any  impress  from  the  personality  of  her  who 
had  occupied  it,  unlike  the  rest  of  the  house  and  the 
common  life  that  went  on  within  its  walls.  The  master- 
ful spirit  impressing  itself  everywhere  else  had  ignored 
this  room,  and  it  was  without  colour,  meaningless.  The 
relentless  verdict  of  death,  spoken  here,  called  forth  no 
echo  of  incredulity  from  inanimate  trifles  made  alive  by 
association.  It  came  with  cold  force  and  gripped  the 
brain.  "  It  cannot  be  so,"  Mrs.  Moggeridge  had  cried, 
but  her  tone  carried  no  conviction,  unless  it  were  to 
contradict  her  words. 

The  doctor  was  a  thin,  elderly  man,  nervous  and 
hesitating,  but  the  downright  manner  of  his  questioner 
plucked  the  truth  out  of  his  hesitations.  "  She  is  sink- 
ing now,"  he  said.  "  It  is  only  a  question  of  hours." 

"  Is  there  nothing  to  be  done?  "  she  said.  "  Another 
opinion?  " 

"  Another  opinion  would  only  confirm  mine,"  he  an- 
swered, "  and  by  the  time  we  could  get  it  she  would  be 
dead." 

';  Oh,  how  terrible  it  is !  Could  nothing  have  been 
done  before  ?  She  seemed  well  yesterday  evening.  Why 
did  you  leave  her  through  the  night?  It  was  only  this 
morning  she  began  to  fail." 

"  It  was  only  this  morning,"  he  said,  gravely. 
"  There  was  no  reason  for  me  to  stay  through  the 
night." 

"  Then  it  was  the  nursing.  There  ought  to  have 
been  a  professional  nurse." 

The  doctor  was  silent. 

"  Is  that  old  woman  incompetent?  "  Mrs.  Moggeridge 
pressed  him.  "  I  dislike  her,  but  I  thought  she  was  a 
good  nurse.  She  nursed  my  brother-in-law,  and  has 


18  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

been  with  him  ever  since.  I  was  shocked  at  first  to  hear 
that  no  trained  nurse  was  engaged,  but  did  not  press 
the  point  because  I  thought  she  would  be  as  good. 
Was  I  wrong?  " 

The  doctor  twisted  his  fingers  nervously.  "  I  should 
have  preferred  a  professional  nurse,"  he  said. 

"Then  it  is  that.  Oh,  why  didn't  I  insist?  And 
you  say  it  is  too  late.  But  why  am  I  talking  here  when 
there  is  so  little  time?  I  must  go  to  her."  She  left 
the  room  hurriedly,  and  went  upstairs. 

The  slight  figure  on  the  bed  lay  motionless,  very  pale, 
the  eyes  closed.  John  Baldock  was  sitting  by  the  pillow, 
his  head  bent  in  his  hands.  The  little  wooden  cradle 
stood  by  the  fireplace,  and  Sarah,  the  old  servant,  was 
busying  herself  with  water  and  flannel's.  Her  face  was 
interested,  her  movements  active.  Tending  the  life  that 
had  just  come  to  be,  she  seemed  quite  detached  from  the 
tragical  slipping  away  of  the  other  life,  now  near  its 
final  extinction. 

Mrs.  Moggeridge  stood  over  her  like  a  vengeance,  in 
terrible  cold  anger.  "  Go  out  of  the  room,"  she  said 
in  a  tense  whisper.  "  It  is  you  who  have  killed  her. 
You  shall  not  be  in  here." 

The  old  woman  looked  up  at  her  in  a  frightened 
manner.  She  did  not  attempt  to  excuse  herself,  nor 
did  she  show  indignation  at  the  charge.  "  The  baby," 
she  whispered,  tremulously. 

"  What  does  the  baby  matter  now?  Take  it  away 
and  go  at  once  into  another  room,  and  don't  come  back 
here  again.  I  can't  bear  to  see  you." 

She  obeyed  without  a  word,  making  two  or  three 
journeys,  and  leaving  the  room  finally  to  the  now  un- 
disturbed influence  of  death. 

Mrs.  Moggeridge  cast  one  look  at  the  bowed  figure 


AN  ENTRY  AND  A  DEPARTURE          19 

of  the  man  by  the  bedhead,  a  direct  look  of  intolerant 
dislike,  almost  of  hatred.  Then  she  sat  down  on  the 
other  side  of  the  bed,  and  gazed  fixedly  at  the  still 
figure  lying  on  it.  Her  face  grew  tender,  broke  into 
tearless  contortions,  became  calm  again.  They  sat  for 
a  long  time  in  silence,  while  the  evening  sunlight  on  the 
wall  shifted  a  space  and  the  breath  of  the  forest  came 
through  the  open  casement.  Then  John  Baldock  raised 
his  head  and  looked  at  his  wife. 

Suddenly  he  threw  himself  on  his  knees  by  the  bed, 
and  began  to  pray.  "  Oh,  God !  "  he  cried.  "  Save 
her.  Bring  her  back  to  me.  Take  away  this  bitter  cup 
which  I  cannot  drink ;  this  burden  which  is  too  hard  for 
me  to  bear." 

"  It  was  she  who  bore  the  burden,"  Mrs.  Moggeridge 
flashed  back  at  him.  He  continued,  without  noticing 
her. 

"  If  I  have  been  blind  to  Thy  will,  blind  to  grace 
which  came  from  Thee,  but  which  I  could  not  under- 
stand, forgive  me,  and  remove  the  punishment  from  me. 
Thou  art  all  powerful.  I  believe  it,  I  know  it.  Thou 
canst  do  this  great  thing.  Thou  Who  didst  raise 
Lazarus  from  the  very  grave  itself,  and  didst  give  life 
to  the  son  of  the  widow,  Life-giver,  Healer,  grant  the 
prayer  of  Thy  servant  who  puts  his  trust  in  Thee,  and 
put  back  the  hour  of  death — if  it  be  Thy  will.  Oh, 
Lord,  make  it  Thy  will." 

The  language  of  the  man  in  dire  distress  fashioning 
the  cry  that  came  from  the  depth  of  his  heart  into  con- 
ventional smooth-slipping  words  aroused  in  Mrs.  Mog- 
geridge's  mind  a  fury  of  scorn  and  anger.  She  heard 
nothing  but  the  glib  speech.  The  self-accusing  bitter- 
ness failed  to  reach  her. 

"  Cant !  "  she  cried.     "  And  at  such  a  time  as  this ! 


20  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

You  who  have  ruined  a  life  and  crushed  the  only  spark 
of  love  in  this  dreary  house!  Take  your  punishment 
and  keep  silent.  Let  her  die  in  peace." 

The  pale  face  on  the  pillow  was  motionless.  The 
brain  was  already  groping  in  eternities,  or  comatose, 
dying  with  the  body.  Who  could  tell?  Whatever  might 
be,  it  was  deaf  to  the  voices  of  the  world. 

John  Baldock  raised  his  dark  face  to  the  shrill 
accuser.  He  seemed  to  observe  her  presence  for  the 
first  time.  "Why  do  you  come  between  us  now?  "  he 
said.  "  Leave  me  alone  with  her — with  her  and  my 
God." 

"Your  God!"  she  sneered.  "What  a  God!  The 
product  of  your  own  vain  cruel  imagination.  One 
thought  of  hers  had  more  of  God  in  it  than  all  your 
harsh  rules  and  sermons.  Oh,  why  did  I  let  you  have 
her?  My  little  sister!"  She  became  all  tenderness 
again,  and  threw  herself  on  her  knees  by  the  bed,  crying, 
in  tears: — 

"  Oh,  don't  leave  us,  Jessica,  my  darling !  We  shall 
become  hard  and  worldly  without  you.  Stay  with  us, 
little  sister,  and  help  us  to  be  good." 

"  Pray  to  God,"  said  the  man,  sternly.  "  Join  your 
prayers  to  mine,  and  He  may  grant  them." 

She  rose  from  her  knees.  "  No,"  she  said,  quietly. 
"  It  is  of  no  use.  You  know  it  as  well  as  I  do.  Let 
us  keep  quiet.  We  may  be  troubling  her." 

Once  more  he  buried  his  head  in  his  arms,  and  prayed 
with  terrible  concentration  and  fervour,  agonizing  in 
spirit,  with  fierce  determination  against  the  decrees  of 
unanswering  fate,  bruising  his  faith  upon  the  stony 
silence,  unregarded  alike  in  his  revolt  and  his  angry 
remorse.  Mrs.  Meggeridge,  hope  departed,  acquiescent 
already  in  the  inevitable,  sat  quietly,  watching  him  in 


AN  ENTRY  AND  A  DEPARTURE          31 

a  mild  stupor  of  curiosity,  her  power  of  feeling  re- 
laxed. By  and  by  there  was  complete  silence  in  the 
room,  broken  only  by  the  child's  distant  wailing — the 
tiny,  child  who  recked  nothing  of  the  great  loss  for 
which  he  might  have  wailed  so  bitterly. 

John  Baldock  rose  from  his  knees  and  took  his  seat 
by  the  bed.  Whatever  his  prayers  had  been  during  the 
time  in  which  his  lips  had  uttered  no  word,  they  had 
brought  him  something  which  he  had  not  gained  from 
his  tempestuous  cryings.  His  face  was  lined  and  grief- 
stricken,  but  it  was  no  longer  in  revolt.  He  kept  it 
fixed  on  his  wife.  Mrs.  Moggeridge  sat  with  her  eyes 
before  her,  her  face  clear  of  expression.  And  again 
there  was  silence. 

There  came  a  faint  disturbance  over  the  pale  face 
of  the  dying  woman,  a  flicker  of  life  very  weak,  the 
shadow  of  a  breath,  and  again  silence,  complete  and 
final. 

John  Baldock  rose  to  his  feet  and  kissed  her  gently 
on  the  brow.  "  God's  will  be  done,"  he  said,  solemnly. 

Mrs.  Moggeridge  started  up  with  a  wild  cry,  and 
flung  herself  on  the  bed.  "  Oh,  no,  it  can't  be !  "  she 
wailed.  "  How  cruel  to  take  her !  Oh,  God,  how  cruel !  " 
She  lost  control  over  herself  and  beat  her  breast  with 
her  hands,  sobbing  and  crying  incoherent  words. 

"  God's  will  be  done,"  said  John  Baldock  again. 


CHAPTER   III 

FRIENDS  AND  OCCUPATIONS 

RICHAKD  BALDOCK,  started  on  the  race  of  life  under  a 
penalty  somewhat  severe,  will  be  the  hero  of  the  follow- 
ing pages,  of  which  a  few  may  well  be  devoted  to  the 
tale  of  his  early  years.  It  is  a  question  how  far  tender 
pity  for  his  motherless  state  may  be  indulged  in  with- 
out giving  way  to  unreasoning  sentiment.  His  depriva- 
tions were  positive  and  need  not  be  disregarded,  but  he 
had  compensations  which  must  be  considered  against 
the  debit  side  of  his  life  account. 

It  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  think  of  the  first  steps  along 
the  pathway  of  life  taken  by  the  child  of  good  and 
happy  parents.  He  is  lapped  round  with  love,  and 
knows  nothing  of  any  other  characteristic  of  human- 
kind. The  world  he  has  come  to  must  be  very  like  the 
world  he  has  left.  Neither  of  them  contains  for  him 
selfishness,  anger,  cruelty,  or  any  of  the  evil  passions 
of  humanity,  for  with  all  our  faults  on  our  heads  we 
show  him  nothing  of  our  nature  that  is  not  godlike.  He 
sets  out  upon  his  journey  through  a  country  empty  of 
danger  or  darkness,  its  air  warm  and  kindly,  its  mea- 
dows smiling  with  flowers,  protected  on  every  hand,  but 
knowing  not  the  need  of  protection,  and  so  fearlessly 
drawing  with  unspoilt  confidence  on  the  measureless 
stores  of  love  around  him.  His  first  smile  is  an  event, 
and  every  milestone  of  intelligence  he  passes  eagerly 
noted.  There  he  lies,  "  fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's 
kisses,  with  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes,"  the 
centre  of  countless  hopes  and  plans  and  ambitions,  of 

22 


FRIENDS  AND  OCCUPATIONS  28 

infinite  importance,  one  of  life's  most  precious  treasures. 
To  think  of  all  the  gracious  influences  he  sheds  around 
him  in  his  unconscious  babyhood  is  to  grasp  much  of  the 
goodness  of  the  world  and  to  forge  a  weapon  against 
the  pessimist. 

Yet  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  child  for  his  part 
takes  all  the  love  and  care  with  which  he  is  surrounded 
very  much  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  accepts  the  wor- 
ship tendered  him  with  coolness.  In  the  case  of  babies 
who  are  deprived  of  the  atmosphere  of  adoration — and 
Richard  Baldock  was  one  of  them — we  may  be  per- 
mitted and  even  encouraged  to  doubt  whether  they  miss 
it.  Consciously  they  cannot  do  so  in  the  early  days, 
and  afterwards,  if  pity  is  brought  to  bear  upon  them, 
it  must  be  with  discretion. 

Pity,  in  his  case,  could  hardly  be  withheld  alto- 
gether. His  father  was  without  that  passionate  affec- 
tion for  little  children  which  some  men  share  with  most 
women,  and  could  not  make  up  to  him  for  the  loss  of  his 
mother.  Doubtless  he  loved  his  son,  but  there  was  no 
foolishness  in  his  love,  and  the  foolishness  of  a  mother's 
love  has  something  to  do  with  its  divine  quality.  Until 
the  baby  began  to  walk  and  to  prattle  he  took  but 
little  notice  of  it,  and  when  he  did  he  began  to  correct 
it,  assuming  the  responsibilities  of  education  very  early, 
so  that  the  child's  dawning  knowledge  of  his  father,  if 
he  could  have  analysed  it,  would  have  been  of  a  man 
who  existed  chiefly  for  the  purpose  of  saying  "  Thou 
shalt  not." 

Deprived  thus  of  a  mother's  love  and  of  a  father's 
tenderness,  the  child  had  nothing  to  fall  back  upon  in 
his  early  years  but  the  care  of  old  Sarah,  his  nurse, 
who  might  have  made  up  to  him  in  some  measure,  if  she 
had  been  so  constituted,  for  the  lack  of  both.  But 


24  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

Sarah  was  not  so  constituted.  The  light  vouchsafed  to 
her  was  the  reflection  of  the  religious  creed  held  by 
John  Baldock,  and  she  also  said  "  Thou  shalt  not  "  with 
overmuch  frequency.  According  to  her  lights  she 
did  her  duty,  and  probably  the  only  child  she  tended 
from  infancy  was  the  only  being  in  the  world  she  really 
cared  for.  At  the  same  time  she  was  unconscionably 
harsh  and  captious,  and  had  nothing  to  give  which 
would  have  made  up  in  the  slightest  degree  for  the 
mother-love  of  which  the  child  had  been  deprived.  Cer- 
tainly he  was  unfortunate  in  this  respect,  because  most 
women  in  her  place  would  have  been  able  to  make  up 
for  it  in  some  measure,  and  he  would  have  felt  the 
advantage,  even  if  she  had  been  at  less  pains  to  attend 
to  his  spiritual  welfare.  How  many  women,  if  a  very 
little  child  came  to  them  holding  up  a  piteous  face  for 
sympathy  over  a  hurt,  could  have  refrained  from  taking 
it  in  their  arms  to  comfort  it  with  murmurs  and  rock- 
ings?  And  this  was  a  motherless  child  towards  whom 
she  stood  for  protection  and  pity.  But  she  never  did 
that.  Tears  were  naughtiness  from  the  earliest  days, 
and  vigorously  scolded.  Childish  falls  and  accidents 
were  carelessness,  and  therefore  naughtiness  again,  and 
rebuked  as  such.  High  spirits,  involving  noise,  were 
naughtiness.  Hunger,  leading  to  undue  celerity  in  the 
consumption  of  food,  was  of  course  naughtiness. 
Absence  of  hunger,  occasioned  by  the  appearance  of 
tapioca  pudding,  was  naughtiness.  Sarah  kept  a  sharp 
look-out  for  naughtiness  in  the  shoals  of  the  little 
Richard's  nature  as  a  pilot  for  hidden  rocks,  and  struck 
it  with  astonishing  frequency.  The  aggregate  of  her 
discoveries  as  to  his  character  and  tendencies  was 
summed  up  in  the  word  "  limb,"  and  if  she  did  not 
always  add  "  of  Satan,"  she  always  meant  it. 


FRIENDS  AND  OCCUPATIONS  25 

And  yet  little  Richard  loved  his  Sarah,  took  her 
many  scoldings  and  her  absence  of  tenderness  philo- 
sophically, as  the  ordained  portion  of  small  boys,  not 
knowing  any  better,  and  put  up  with  the  conviction, 
persistently  drummed  into  him,  of  his  shining  unworthi- 
ness,  as  best  he  might.  If  he  grazed  his  knees  she  did 
bind  them  up,  although  she  allowed  his  lacerated  spirit 
to  heal  of  itself.  If  he  was  ill  he  was  made  to  feel  that 
the  illness  had  some  intimate  connection  with  the  fact 
of  his  being  a  limb,  but  he  was  most  carefully  nursed 
back  to  health.  His  everyday  wants  were  attended  to. 
In  fact,  he  was  cared  for,  and  if  he  was  cared  for,  as 
has  been  said,  without  tenderness,  not  knowing  what 
tenderness  could  be  he  did  not  greatly  miss  it,  and  it 
is  possible  that  on  that  account  he  gained  more  in  self- 
reliance  and  self-control  than  he  lost  in  happiness. 

And  after  all,  Sarah  was  not  always  nagging.  Rich- 
ard and  she  passed  together  many  hours  of  intimate 
companionship.  The  fact  that  from  his  earliest  child- 
hood he  regarded  the  Bible  as  the  most  interesting  of 
books  he  owed  entirely  to  her.  Her  gift  of  exposition 
was  remarkable,  and  she  made  the  characters  that 
walked  and  talked  and  strove  with  one  another  in  the 
beginning  of  the  world  as  real  to  him  as  the  men  and 
women  of  his  father's  parish.  The  historical  books  of 
the  Old  Testament  were  her  favourites,  which  was  for- 
tunate for  him,  but  they  both  had  a  decided  liking  for 
the  Book  of  Revelation,  and  frequently  dipped  into  the 
Gospels,  particularly  that  of  St.  Luke. 

On  one  delightful  summer  Sunday  evening,  when  they 
were  alone  in  the  house  and  perfect  stillness  and  a  sort 
of  golden  dusk  enwrapped  them,  they  allowed  their 
minds  to  dwell  on  an  alleged  promise  that  each  of  us 
hereafter  would  inhabit  a  mansion.  A  mansion,  ex- 


26  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

plained  Sarah,  in  answer  to  inquiries,  was  a  large  and 
beautiful  house.  Was  the  Rectory  a  mansion?  The 
suggestion  was  scouted.  Was  the  Hall  a  mansion, 
then?  Yes;  and  Richard's  mind  went  off  in  a  canter 
of  delightful  anticipation,  increased  to  a  gallop  by  the 
information  that  it  was  a  mere  hovel  in  comparison 
with  the  desirable  residences  whose  amenities  they  then 
spent  a  pleasant  hour  in  discussing.  He  was  recalled 
to  earth  by  the  return  of  his  father  from  church,  and 
a  sudden  statement  to  the  effect  that  he  was  not  to 
regard  himself  as  eligible  for  a  tenancy  unless  he  showed 
a  marked,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  even  a  miraculous 
increase  of  goodness. 

On  another  happy  evening  they  explored  the  possi- 
bilities of  Hell,  regarded  as  an  opportunity  for  in- 
genious torture.  It  was  winter  and  a  big  ripe  fire 
glowed  in  the  grate  of  the  nursery. 

"  How  would  you  like,"  inquired  Sarah,  "  to  put 
your  finger  into  that  and  keep  it  there?  " 

Richard  hastened  to  reply  that  he  should  not  like  it 
at  all,  half  afraid  that  for  his  soul's  health  she  might 
think  it  advisable  for  him  to  try.  But  as  his  last  ebul- 
lition of  naughtiness  had  been  connected  with  experi- 
ments having  to  do  with  the  flame  and  wax  of  a  candle 
and  a  red-hot  hairpin  which  had  not  turned  out  as  he 
anticipated,  a  further  object-lesson  was  not  deemed 
necessary. 

"  Ah,"  said  Sarah,  "  you  cried  in  your  wickedness 
when  you  burnt  the  smallest  part  of  your  finger.  Think 
of  the  pain  when  every  inch  of  your  body  burst  into 
flame.  And  there'll  be  no  Sarah  to  bind  it  with  an 
oiled  rag.  The  pain  will  go  on,  ah,  and  get  worse,  for 
ever  and  ever  and  ever !  " 

Richard  was  fascinated  by  this  amiable  conception, 


FRIENDS  AND  OCCUPATIONS  27 

and  they  pursued  it  further.  He  did  not  take  her 
adjuration  personally,  nor  did  she  mean  him  to.  She 
was  in  high  good-humour  and  surpassed  herself  in  her 
imaginative  excursions,  binding  down  her  God  to  a 
monstrous  cruelty,  the  idea  of  which  if  he  had  not  been 
blessed  with  more  than  the  average  scepticism  of  healthy 
childhood,  might  have  sent  him  gibbering  into  idiocy. 

Well,  that  was  Richard's  Sarah,  and  with  all  her 
faults  he  loved  her,  for  she  stood  to  him  for  what  he 
knew  of  motherhood,  and  they  were  often  very  comfort- 
able together.  He  used  to  think  sometimes  in  after 
years  that  if  a  few  drops  of  that  rain  of  love  which  is 
the  birthright  of  every  child  brought  into  the  world 
had  fallen  upon  him,  it  would  have  found  fruitful  soil, 
and  might  very  well  have  tempered  the  aridity  of  his 
naughtiness,  of  which  so  much  was  made  in  his  child- 
hood. But  there  was  no  one  to  give  it  him,  and  he  had 
to  do  without. 

One  other  friend  he  had  in  his  father's  household, 
Job  Wilding,  gardener  and  groom.  Martha,  the  only 
other  indoor  servant,  may  be  omitted,  because  she  was 
stone  deaf  and  liable  to  periodical  fits  of  aberration  be- 
sides, so  that  what  with  her  bodily  infirmities  and  a 
somewhat  morose  and  grudging  habit  of  mind,  she  was 
not  a  person  upon  whom  affection  could  conveniently  be 
lavished,  nor  was  she  apparently  capable  of  returning 
it  if  it  had  been. 

Job  Wilding  was  elderly  and  rather  bent,  and,  like 
the  bones  in  the  scriptural  valley,  he  was  very  dry. 
His  conversation,  when  he  vouchsafed  it,  was  a  great 
pleasure  to  little  Richard.  It  had  so  many  unexpected 
twists  and  turns,  and  there  was  a  kind  of  sporting 
excitement  in  watching  it  carefully  for  the  sake  of  a 
hidden  joke,  which  you  might  come  upon  at  any  mo- 


28  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

ment  under  the  innocent-looking  form  of  words  which 
concealed  it.  The  concealment  would  usually  have  been 
complete  had  not  Job's  eye  acted  the  part  of  a  pointer 
in  marking  down  the  game.  He  would  bend  his  gaze 
upon  whatever  he  might  be  doing  while  he  talked,  until 
he  had  spoken  the  sentence  that  contained  the  pleas- 
antry, when  a  single  glance,  flicked  obliquely  at  his 
listener,  would  set  him  reconsidering,  seldom  without 
reward. 

There  was  this  added  charm  to  little  Richard  about 
Job's  companionship,  that  it  was  always  uncertain,  until 
he  tried,  whether  he  would  get  it  or  not.  For  days  to- 
gether Job  would  be  quite  affable  in  his  acceptance  of 
his  society,  ready  to  talk  and  even  to  be  talked  to,  and, 
on  the  other  hand,  he  would  suddenly  veer  round  in  the 
middle  of  a  regular  spinney  of  humours,  his  eye  flicker- 
ing at  every  other  sentence,  and  send  him  packing  off 
out  of  his  sight  as  if  he  were  an  offence  under  Heaven. 
This  inequality  of  behaviour  on  Job's  part  the  child 
accepted  with  the  same  equanimity  which  he  brought 
to  bear  upon  his  father's  severity  and  Sarah's  nagging 
tongue,  and  liked  him  none  the  worse  for  it.  Job  spent 
his  time  doing  interesting  things  with  his  hands,  and  on 
this  account  alone  Richard  would  have  envied  him 
greatly,  for  his  own  duties  in  the  world  were  the  learn- 
ing of  hard  things  out  of  books,  and  his  pastime  to  try 
to  do  the  very  things  Job  earned  his  living  by. 

How  Job  came  to  be  and  remain  part  of  a  household 
ruled  over  by  a  man  of  John  Baldock's  convictions  it 
would  be  difficult  to  say.  He  was  a  commoner  of  the 
great  forest  of  which  the  parish  of  Beechhurst  formed 
a  part,  and  held  a  diminutive  holding,  exercising  his 
rights  of  pasture  and  pannage  and  the  rest,  and  fre- 
quently staying  away  for  a  day  or  two  to  look  after 


FRIENDS  AND  OCCUPATIONS  29 

his  own  affairs  without  leave  or  subsequent  apology. 
This  form  of  independence,  however,  was  taken  for 
granted  in  that  part  of  the  world  by  anyone  who  cared 
to  employ  a  forester  in  his  service.  What  it  is  difficult 
to  understand  John  Baldock  taking  for  granted  was 
the  fact  that  Job  was  never  by  any  chance  to  be  found 
in  church.  Although  a  clean-living  man,  he  was  in  an 
undoubted  state  of  perdition,  judged  by  the  standards 
used  by  his  master.  He  was  also,  in  accepted  parlance, 
a  scoffer,  for  he  made  no  secret  of  his  total  unconcern 
over  those  matters  held  by  John  Baldock  as  all-impor- 
tant. He  did  not  "  hold  with  religion,"  and  said  so 
whenever  he  felt  it  to  be  required  of  him.  And  yet  he 
was  never  sent  about  his  business.  Perhaps  he  would 
not  have  consented  to  go. 

Between  Job  and  Sarah  there  was  a  great  gulf  fixed. 
She  frequently  told  him  that  if  she  were  in  the  master's 
place  she  would  send  him  packing  without  any  cere- 
mony for  a  godless,  idle  creature;  and  he  with  a  com- 
mand of  Scripture  that  was  somewhat  remarkable,  con- 
sidering his  churchless  proclivities,  would  retort  with 
a  biting  quotation,  directed  against  women  in  general 
and  brawling  women  in  particular,  that  sent  her  into 
a  fury.  In  her  more  serious  Bible  readings  she  would 
identify  Job  as  possessing  all  the  recognizable  char- 
acteristics of  that  curious  abstraction  known  as  "  the 
sinner,"  or  "  the  wicked,"  leaving  little  Richard  with  the 
impression  that  King  David  and  King  Solomon  must 
have  missed  a  deal  of  pleasant  society  through  their 
prejudices;  and  of  course  she  frequently  forbade  the 
child  to  imperil  his  meagre  hopes  of  ultimate  salvation 
by  consorting  with  such  an  obvious  reprobate.  These 
injunctions  he  disobeyed,  and  with  comparative  im- 
punity, for  she  never  called  in  his  father  in  aid  of 


30  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

them.  His  philosophy  taught  him  early  that  if  his 
naughtiness  were  so  everywhere  apparent,  he  might  as 
well  suck  some  advantage  of  it. 

If  the  people  among  v/hom  he  lived  were  not  such 
as  to  add  greatly  to  the  happiness  of  a  child,  little 
Richard's  surroundings  in  other  respects  were  enviable. 
The  old  rectory,  shabby,  rambling,  and  out  of  repair, 
but  quiet  and  beautiful,  stood  in  the  midst  of  an  over- 
grown garden  whose  amenities  were  so  impossible  to 
cope  with  by  the  energies  brought  to  bear  on  them  by 
Job  that  those  parts  of  it  not  devoted  to  fruit  and 
vegetables  were  allowed  to  relapse  into  wilderness.  The 
dense  shrubberies  and  massy  trees  were  a  very  treasure 
house  of  the  secrets  of  nature,  and  Richard  would  have 
been  a  personage  among  the  village  boys  if  for  no 
other  reason  than  that  he  had  unrestrained  access  to 
these  arcana,  which  they  pried  into  only  under  extreme 
peril.  Dewy  dawns  of  early  summer,  blossoming  lilacs, 
liquid  thrush  notes,  or  grass  in  shade,  sun-flecked,  had 
power  in  after  years  to  bring  back  to  him  the  delights 
of  that  gree.n  garden  of  his  childhood. 

And  all  around  this  garden,  divided  from  it  indeed 
in  one  place  only  by  a  tottering  fence,  stretched  mile 
after  mile  of  the  great  forest,  deep  woodland  alternating 
with  sandy  heath.  Never  was  such  a  playground  for 
nature-loving  youth,  and  his  earliest  impressions  were 
indissolubly  mixed  up  with  it.  He  had  only  to  creep 
through  a  gap  in  the  fence,  hidden  by  a  bush  of  syringa, 
to  find  himself  in  a  forest  glade,  with  great  clean  nobly- 
branching  beeches  springing  from  its  green  and  russet 
floor,  giant  dark  glittering  hollies,  level  stretches  of 
bracken  in  sun  and  shade,  and  a  sense  of  vastness  and 
freedom  over  all  as  the  track  wound  on  into  the  un- 
explored distance  far  beyond  the  limits  of  his  wander- 


FRIENDS  AND  OCCUPATIONS  31 

ings.  Here  he  might  play  for  hours  with  no  com- 
panionship save  that  of  the  creatures  of  the  forest, 
and  never  feel  alone  or  afraid.  There  were  the  rabbits 
lopping  across  the  rides,  the  busy  wood-pigeons  and 
harsh- voiced  jays,  the  pleasant  notes  of  more  tuneful 
birds,  the  chattering  squirrels,  the  insistent  but  com- 
panionable cuckoo.  Sometimes  a  drove  of  black  pigs 
would  cross  his  path,  fussily  intent  on  their  ovesting, 
more  rarely  a  herd  of  fallow  deer.  Events  to  be  remem- 
bered were  the  sight  of  a  red  deer,  majestically  pacing, 
or  a  fox  trying  to  steal  hidden  through  the  under- 
growth, or  an  otter,  timid-eyed  but  unsuspicious  of  his 
presence,  seeking  its  supper  in  a  secret  pool. 

Of  the  multitudinous  occupations  and  excitements  of 
a  more  sociable  character  afforded  by  the  forest  there 
were  enough  to  provide  a  varied  round  of  amusement 
from  January  to  December.  On  New  Year's  Day  the 
village  boys  would  go  out  "  squoyling."  Armed  with 
loaded  sticks,  of  a  sufficiently  formidable  character  when 
they  sometimes  turned  them  against  their  fellows,  they 
would  wage  war  upon  the  squirrels,  bringing  them  down 
with  wonderful  dexterity  by  throwing  their  "  squoyles  " 
at  them  as  they  crouched  on  the  leafless  branches  of  the 
trees.  Richard  never  liked  this  pastime  and  removed 
himself  from  the  company  of  his  fellows  whenever  it 
was  afoot.  In  fact,  he  grew  to  be  shy  of  all  forms  of 
forest  sport,  spending  so  many  hours  as  he  did  alone 
with  the  hunted  birds  and  beasts,  and  looking  on  them 
as  his  friends. 

One  glorious  day  in  May  a  pack  of  itinerant  otter 
hounds  met  at  Beechurst,  and  Richard,  then  about 
twelve  years  old,  followed  them  up  and  down  a  stream 
deep  in  the  heart  of  the  forest,  pushing  through  the 
aromatic  bog-myrtle  and  wading  the  pebbly  shallows 


32  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

all  through  the  early  hours  of  the  morning,  happy  and 
excited.  But  the  end  of  that  was  that  the  hounds  and 
the  crowd  of  alien  followers,  strange  men  and  stranger 
women  in  rough  tweeds,  noisy  and  eager,  invaded  the 
secrets  of  the  pool  which  he  was  persuaded  until  that 
time  was  known  to  him  alone,  and  killed  their  quarry 
there.  It  was  the  same  otter  that  he  had  watched  feed- 
ing the  evening  before,  in  contented  security,  and  as  she 
died  she  turned  her  brown  eyes  reproachfully  on  him, 
and  he  fancied  she  thought  that  he  had  betrayed  her. 
He  never  ran  with  the  otter  hounds  again. 

Nor  did  he  hunt  the  deer  more  than  once  or  twice,  al- 
though he  could  always  have  found  some  sort  of  a  pony 
to  carry  him,  in  that  country  where  ponies  could  be 
had,  or  at  any  rate  used,  for  the  asking.  All  his  life 
through  he  shrank  from  the  bloody  climax  of  field 
sports,  however  legitimate.  In  those  days  he  was  prob- 
ably somewhat  ashamed  of  this  shrinking,  which  was 
instinctive  and  not  reasoned,  and  it  was  not  strong 
enough  to  prevent  his  taking  a  keen  interest  in  those 
phases  of  any  sport  that  had  to  do  with  woodcraft.  He 
was  astir  many  a  time  at  cold  dawn  to  accompany  a 
"  harbourer,"  whose  duty  it  was  to  mark  down  a  war- 
rantable buck  to  the  hidden  covert  whence  he  was  pres- 
ently to  be  awakened  by  the  sage  old  "  tufters  "  and  cut 
off  from  his  companions,  so  that  the  rest  of  the  pack 
could  hunt  him  unconfused;  and  his  pride  was  great 
when  he  first  realised  that  his  company  was  permitted 
by  this  otherwise  morose  and  unapproachable  function- 
ary because  his  knowledge  of  the  deer  and  their  ways  was 
considered  of  value.  He  was  more  than  content  with 
those  early  stages  of  the  chase,  and  ran  off  home  when 
the  hounds  had  got  fairly  to  work  and  taken  the  throng- 
ing turmoil  of  the  field  after  them, 


FRIENDS  AND  OCCUPATIONS  33 

The  kind  of  hunting  he  did  enjoy,  perhaps  because 
there  was  no  ultimate  bloodshed  involved  in  it,  was  the 
rounding  up  of  the  ponies,  when  it  was  brought  home  to 
those  at  other  times  unfettered  denizens  of  the  forest 
that  they  were  as  much  under  obligations  to  humanity 
as  their  sleeker  brethren  who  passed  them  bitted  and 
saddled  along  the  roads  and  bridle-paths.  What  times 
those  were  for  the  boy  when  he  was  asked  by  some 
owner  of  mares  running  in  the  forest  to  take  part  in  a 
colt  hunt,  and  spent  the  day  galloping  over  the  heaths 
and  through  the  woodlands  in  chase  of  the  scandalised 
little  creatures  with  their  rough  coats  and  shaggy 
manes,  who  did  their  cunning  best  to  shake  off  the  per- 
emptory invitation  to  civilization.  A  summer  day  spent 
thus  in  the  open  air  and  amidst  such  surroundings  by  a 
healthy  boy  exercising  skill  and  endurance,  with  no 
anxieties  of  mind  or  responsibility  to  mar  the  delight 
of  the  body,  is  a  life  possession  of  enjoyment  to  be 
hoarded  in  the  memory.  And  Richard  had  many  of 
them  to  look  back  upon. 

And  apart  from  these  excitements,  there  was  always 
some  activity  afoot  which  provided  him  with  interest 
all  through  the  year.  He  would  help  Job  to  cut  his 
commoner's  share  of  peat,  and  that  of  his  father,  when 
the  permits  were  assigned  in  the  late  autumn.  They 
would  go  up  to  their  apportioned  plot  of  ground  on 
the  heath  and  cut  it  into  squares  like  a  chessboard, 
taking  one  and  leaving  two,  according  to  forest  law. 
Earlier  still  they  had  carted  their  harvest  of  russet 
bracken,  which  was  used  for  litter,  and  occasionally  for 
thatching.  Sometimes,  in  winter,  there  was  the  glorious 
excitement  of  firing  the  gorse,  when  great  tangles  of 
an  acre  or  more  would  toss  fiery  arms  high  into  the 
night,  when  fire-flakes  and  billows  of  smoke  would  go 


34  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

sailing  off  in  the  wind,  and  you  could  not  come  within 
many  yards  of  the  conflagration,  because  of  the  heat. 
Then  there  was  the  mystery  of  hurdle-making  to  be 
learnt  in  an  April  copse,  close  pollarded,  a  carpet  of 
primroses ;  and  the  felling  of  timber,  for  which  Richard 
might  be  fortunate  enough  to  borrow  an  axe,  and  after 
an  hour's  diligent  chopping  produce  a  ragged  and 
shameful  stump  which  his  neighbour  would  have  left 
clean  and  smooth  with  a  dozen  well-directed  strokes. 

These  were  only  a  few  of  the  constant  occupations 
which  went  on  in  the  forest,  and  in  which  the  boy  took 
his  part,  laying  up  for  himself  a  store  of  pleasant 
memories  which  he  valued  the  more  the  older  he  grew, 
and  especially  when  his  life  came  to  be  spent  in  far 
different  surroundings.  The  charm  of  the  free  forest 
life,  delightful  enough  to  those  who  first  experience  it 
in  manhood,  was  to  Richard  Baldock,  who  reached  the 
heart  of  its  mysteries  at  an  age  when  the  mind  is  most 
affected  by  outside  impressions,  an  emotion  almost  poig- 
nant. All  the  days  of  his  childhood  and  youth  were 
gladdened  and  the  deprivations  of  his  home  life  soothed 
by  it.  The  motherhood  of  nature,  to  him  who  had  never 
known  his  mother,  was  no  mere  phrase,  but  a  very  reul 
thing. 


CHAPTER    IV 

RICHARD  LEARNS  HIS  LETTERS 

WHEN  Richard  Baldock  reached  the  ripe  age  of  five 
his  education  in  letters  was  taken  in  hand.  More 
fortunate  children  are  lured  over  the  first  steps  in  the 
path  of  learning  in  many  artful  and  pleasant  ways, 
make  warm  friends  with  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  on 
their  nursery  floors,  and  have  a  nodding  acquaintance 
with  some  of  them  in  conjunction  before  it  is  time  to 
show  them  in  their  true  colours,  as  task-masters  and 
not  as  playmates.  Richard  went  into  his  father's  study 
at  nine  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  his  fifth  birthday,  as 
ignorant  of  the  alphabet  as  he  was  of  the  algebraical 
signs,  and  came  out  of  it  an  hour  afterwards  in  tears 
and  black  despair. 

John  Baldock  chose  little  Richard's  birthday  on 
which  to  commence  operations  because  he  was  a  man 
of  method  and  had  no  glimmering  of  an  idea  of  the 
importance  of  such  festivals  in  the  calendar  of  child- 
hood, having  forgotten  his  own  long  since.  Between  the 
time  of  his  leaving  the  University  and  taking  Orders 
he  had  been  an  assistant  master  in  a  public  school,  a 
fair  scholar  and  a  painstaking  teacher,  and  he  looked 
forward  to  undertaking  the  early  stages  of  his  son's 
education  with  some  eagerness,  judging  him  intelligent 
and  capable  of  developing  quickly  under  systematic  in- 
dividual tuition. 

Behold,  therefore,  a  small  curly-headed  figure,  dressed 
in  a  holland  blouse,  seated  upright  at  the  table  at  a 

35 


36  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

height  made  convenient  by  a  large  volume  of  the 
Septuagint  between  himself  and  his  chair,  gazing  with 
wide-open,  serious  blue  eyes  at  a  serious  of  cabalistic 
signs  in  bewildering  numbers,  each  of  which  he  was  ex- 
pected to  greet  by  name  after  a  single  introduction. 
The  book  chosen  for  his  initiation  was  no  lavishly  pic- 
tured child's  alphabet  with  enlightening  representations 
of  archers  and  frogs  and  butchers,  but  an  old  church 
Bible  with  large  print,  his  father  having  a  desire,  which 
he  would  have  been  shocked  to  hear  described  as  senti- 
mental, that  his  first  acquaintance  with  the  art  of  let- 
ters should  be  made  through  the  medium  of  holy  writ. 

John  Baldock  was  a  votary  of  the  impatient  method 
of  teaching.  He  had  fussed  and  fumed  through  many 
a  Fourth  Form  lesson  in  days  gone  by,  wasting  a  great 
deal  of  his  own  energy  and  that  of  his  pupils  in  a 
running  commentary  on  their  individual  and  collective 
stupidity,  and  he  treated  his  little  five-year-old  son  in 
the  same  manner  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  treat 
the  idle  sixteen-year-old  hobbledehoys  who  had  col- 
lected like  a  sediment  at  the  bottom  of  his  form  twenty 
years  before.  The  consequence  was  that  the  child 
grew  first  of  all  bewildered,  and  then  frightened,  and 
finally,  when  his  father  had  reduced  him  to  a  state  in 
which  he  could  do  nothing  with  him,  he  sent  him  out 
of  the  room  in  disgrace  and  bemoaned  his  own  fate  in 
having  a  son  who  was  both  stupid  and  obstinate. 

Little  Richard  knew  better  than  to  take  his  trou- 
bles to  Sarah,  and  ran  out  into  the  garden  to  Job, 
who,  although  not  entirely  reliable  as  a  comforter, 
possessed  arts  which  could  stop  tears  if  he  cared  to 
exercise  them.  On  this  occasion  he  proved  more  com- 
placent than  usual. 

"  Why,  Master  Richard,"  he  said,  cocking  an  eye 


RICHARD  LEARNS  HIS  LETTERS        37 

/-•£»;<' 

from  behind  a  gooseberry  bush  which  he  was  stripping, 
"  you  be  a-bellowing  like  a  toad  with  the  rheumatics." 

Interest  in  this  suggested  zoological  freak  caused  a 
pause  in  the  lamentations,  which  Job  filled  in  by  an 
inquiry  as  to  their  cause. 

"  See  here  now,"  he  said  when  this  had  been  con- 
vulsively explained  to  him.  "  I'll  learn  you  to  spell  a 
word.  Now  what  does  this  stand  for  ?  "  He  disposed 
a  dozen  gooseberries  carefully  on  the  gravel  of  the  path 
in  the  rough  shape  of  a  letter.  Richard,  his  sobs  still 
shaking  him,  expressed  a  timid  ignorance. 

"  Well,  if  you  was  to  ask  me  before  breakfast," 
said  Job,  "  I  should  say  it  was  a  Har,  and  I  shouldn't 
say  no  different  after  supper,  not  if  you  was  to  take 
me  out  and  shoot  me  for  it.  Now,  what  do  you  say  it 
be?" 

"  Capital  R,"  replied  Richard,  with  a  flash  of  mem- 
ory, his  tears  stopped  and  his  interest  aroused  by  this 
novel  method  of  tuition. 

"  Never  mind  about  the  capital,"  said  Job.  "  We 
ain't  got  no  call  to  be  so  particular,  not  with  goose- 
berries. That's  a  Har — Har  for  Richard,  and  if 
anybody  says  it  ain't,  my  address  is  well  known  and 
I'm  to  be  found  there  regular  after  six.  Now,  sup- 
posing you  was  to  take  two  postes  and  lean  'em  to- 
gether, and  tie  another  one  across  'em,  you'd  get  a 
letter,  I  suppose,  and  not  one  of  the  puzzlers  neither." 

"  That  would  be  an  A,"  said  little  Richard. 

"  Nobody  knows  that  better  than  you,"  continued 
Job,  "  and  now  you've  got  two  of  'em.  Now  if  you 
was  to  take  and  turn  my  gooseberries  so's  the  Har, 
instead  of  waving  his  tail  abroad,  was  to  tread  on  it 
with  his  foot,  there'd  be  your  letter  *  B  '  and  you've 
got  R.A.B.  Now  take  three  rungs  of  a  ladder  and 


38  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

knock  away  one  side,  and  you'll  get  a  letter  '  E  '  what 
you  might  be  proud  to  see  facing  you  in  a  printed 
book,  and  there's  your  R.A.B.E.  Only  one  more  and 
,you've  got  a  word  as  good  as  any  of  'em.  Stick  a  post 
in  the  groun  and  another  one  acrost  his  top,  and  what's 
that  letter?  "  He  exemplified  it  with  the  aid  of  two 
sticks. 

Richard  shook  his  head.  "  I've  seen  it,"  he  said, 
"  but  it's  gone  out  of  my  head." 

"  Well,  if  that  ain't  as  proper  a  letter  T  as  ever 
the  greatest  scholard  in  the  world  wrastled  with,"  said 
Job,  "  there's  no  obligin'  nobody.  An'  there  you've 
got  'em.  Five  good  'uns.  R.A.B.E.T.  And  what 
word  might  that  spell,  now?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Richard.  "  I  don't  know 
spelling." 

"  Well,  you  will  some  day,  and  you'll  never  forget 
as  Job  first  learned  you  how  to  spell  a  word.  That 
word's  raab't.  R.A.B.E.T.,  raab't ;  and  if  you  was  to 
go  into  the  yard  and  look  behind  the  coachhouse  door 
I  shouldn't  wonder  but  what  you  was  to  find  a  little 
raab't  in  a  hutch  what's  fond  o'  lettuces,  and  here's 
some  to  take  to  him.  And  another  day  I'll  learn  you 
how  to  spell  pie."  This  last  witticism  was  fired  at 
Richard's  retreating  back. 

Here  was  success  in  consolation  indeed.  The  shadow 
of  the  alphabet  departed  from  Richard's  path  for  the 
rest  of  that  day,  which  even  Sarah  celebrated  by  the 
production  of  a  birthday  cake,  and  he  was  as  happy 
as  it  was  his  nature  to  be. 

But  the  next  day  it  began  again.  Richard  showed 
unshaking  precision  in  recognizing  five  out  of  the 
twenty-six  letters,  but  his  poor  little  exasperated  brain 
refused  to  hold  any  more.  Again  he  retired  in  tears, 


ftlCHARD  LEARNS  HIS  LETTERS         39 

Job  had  taken  a  day  off,  but  the  rabbit  was  some  com- 
fort. He  was  talking  to  it  quite  happily,  having 
shaken  off  for  the  time  being  the  memory  of  his  morn- 
ing's reverses,  when  his  father  came  upon  him  sud- 
denly. 

John  Baldock's  appearances  in  his  stable-yard  were 
rare.  Richard's  fondling  words  died  on  his  lips,  and 
he  stared  up  at  his  father  with  frightened  eyes,  crouch- 
ing on  the  ground  before  the  hutch  with  the  rabbit  on 
his  lap. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  from,  Richard?"  asked 
the  autocrat. 

"  Job  gave  it  me  for  my  birfday." 

"  You  should  have  told  me  about  it.  I  do  not  wish 
you  to  keep  animals  without  my  knowledge.  They  con- 
sume produce." 

"Oh,  mayn't  I  keep  my  rabbit?  I  do  love  my 
rabbit ! "  cried  Richard,  his  fear  of  his  father  driven 
out  by  a  greater  fear. 

"  I  will  not  take  it  away  from  you  now  you  have  it. 
But  you  do  not  deserve  a  present,  and  if  I  had  known 
I  should  have  forbidden  Job  to  give  you  one  until  you 
had  pleased  me  over  your  lessons.  You  may  keep  it 
for  the  present,  but  I  warn  you,  Richard,  that  if  you 
do  not  amend  I  shall  take  it  from  you.  Presents  are 
not  for  idle  and  obstinate  children.  If  I  see  a  marked 
improvement  in  you  from  to-morrow,  you  may  keep 
your  rabbit.  If  not  it  will  be  taken  from  you."  And 
the  man  of  responsibilities  walked  off  to  point  out  the 
way  of  salvation  to  a  sick  parishioner. 

Richard,  with  the  terrible  fear  of  losing  his  first  pet 
to  confuse  him  still  further,  made  but  a  sorry  ex- 
hibition of  learning  the  next  morning  and  the.  morn- 
ing after  that,  and  on  the  third  day  the  threat  of 


40 

sequestration  was  carried  out.  "  Come  with  me,"  said 
John  Baldock,  and  he  marched  off  to  the  stable-yard, 
followed  by  Richard,  crying  as  if  his  heart  would 
break. 

Job  was  found  washing  the  wheels  of  the  gig. 

"  Well,  Master  Richard,  I  be  ashamed  of  you,  that 
I  be,"  he  said,  when  the  mission  was  explained  to  him. 
"  Didn't  I  learn  ye  five  good  letters  a  Monday,  and 
didn't  you  suck  'em  in  like  mother's  milk  ?  " 

Richard,  his  anguish  receiving  a  further  wrench 
from  hearing  his  former  ally  thus  shamelessly  siding 
against  his,  howled  acquiescence. 

"  He  will  not  learn  them  from  me,"  said  John  Bal- 
dock, his  face  a  mask  of  severity. 

"  Dear,  dear !  "  said  Job,  "  what  terrible  hearing ! 
Here  be  I,  a  poor  labouring  man,  learning  of  you  five 
letters  in  five  minutes  with  a  few  onripe  gooseberries 
and  a  bundle  of  peasticks,  and  your  father,  great 
scholar  as  he  is,  and  a  holy  man,  besides,  using  his  great 
powers  of  mind,  and  you  won't  learn  nothing.  Why, 
anybody  'ud  think  he  didn't  know  the  right  way  to  go 
to  work.  That  they  would." 

Richard's  trouble,  in  no  wise  abated  by  this  speech, 
became  more  vocal  than  before.  "  Stop  that  noise," 
said  his  father,  impatiently ;  and,  when  he  did  not  obey, 
being  past  the  stage  of  self-control,  "  Then  go  back  to 
my  room  and  wait  there  till  I  come  to  you." 

"  Now  this  here  raab't,"  pursued  Job,  evenly,  when 
the  little  forlorn  figure  had  slowly  withdrawn  itself, 
"  if  you  was  to  take  and  brandish  a  lettuce  in  front 
of  'er  face,  and  poke  it  at  'er  nose,  might  go  hungry, 
and  yet  raab'ts  is  not  onwilling  as  a  general  rule  to 
consoom  lettuces.  Them  as  is  bred  up  on  parables,  so 
to  speak,  can  take  'em  or  leave  'em." 


RICHARD  LEARNS  HIS  LETTERS         41 

"  Is  it  true  that  you  taught  the  child  some  letters  on 
Monday?  "  asked  John  Baldock. 

"  Is  it  true  that  the  child  shows  acquaintance  with 
a  R  and  a  A  and  a  B  and  a  E  and  a  T  whenever  he 
comes  acrost  'em?  "  asked  Job  in  return. 

"  He  does  know  those  letters,  and  very  few  besides." 

"  Oh,  the  evil  passions  of  the  human  'eart !  The  raab't 
will  consoom  a  lettuce  leaf  when  insinuated  into  'er  by 
the  poor  ignorant  man  at  sixteen  shillings  a  week  and 
refuse  a  banquet  poked  at  'er  by  the  great  scholard." 

"  Enough  of  this  folly.  The  child  is  obstinate,  and 
as  a  punishment  you  are  to  take  that  animal  away.  He 
shall  not  have  it." 

Job  faced  him  squarely,  with  an  angry  light  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Then  I  takes  myself  away  with  it,"  he  said.  "  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  that  you  ought,  a 
aggravating  a  bit  of  a  thing  like  that  till  he  don't 
know  a  A  from  a  ampersand.  He's  sharp  enough,  and 
so  you'd  know  it,  if  you  wasn't  so  choked  up  with  your 
own  Christian  pride." 

"  Leave  Christianity  alone.  What  do  you  know  of 
it  who  never  set  your  foot  inside  a  place  of  worship?  " 

"  I'll  set  my  foot  in  a  place  o'  worship  when  them 
as  is  most  regular  there  shows  me  an  example  I  feel  like 
follerin'.  I  wouldn't  treat  a  stupid  harse  like  you  treats 
your  own  flesh  and  blood.  Master  Richard — if  I  could 
'a  'ad  a  child  without  his  mother — he's  just  the  child  I 
should  'a  liked  to  have  'ad,  and  I'd  'a  made  something 
of  'im.  If  you'd  'ad  a  angel  from  'eaven  you'd  'a  found 
something  wrong  with  'im  and  took  away  his  raab't 
for  not  doing  something  you  won't  let  him  do.  You 
don't  desarve  neither  wife  nor  child,  and  if  you're  not 
careful  he'll  be  took  from  you  like  the  other  was," 


42 

John  Baldock  turned  and  went  out  of  the  stable- 
yard  without  a  word.  He  remembered  a  night  five 
years  before  when  a  prayer  wrung  out  of  the  depths 
of  his  heart  had  borne  to  the  skies  his  conviction  of 
error.  For  the  first  time  since  the  birth  of  his  little 
son  he  asked  himself  whether  he  was  in  danger  of  re- 
peating that  error.  His  conscience,  often  tortured 
with  self-questionings,  was  in  much  the  same  state  of 
timidity  as  a  worried  pupil  taught  to  twist  his  mind 
to  so  much  knowledge  from  outside  that  he  is  shy  of 
obtruding  his  own.  Turned,  however,  to  this  question 
John  Baldock's  conscience  spoke  up  with  a  wealth  of 
accusations  which  only  increased  the  more  they  were 
rebutted.  He  was  treading  exactly  the  same  road  as 
had  brought  him  such  pain  and  contrition  five  years 
before. 

If  only  this  hard,  narrow,  upright  man  had  pos- 
sessed a  trace  of  tenderness !  The  pathetic  little  figure, 
o'erwhelmed  by  a  grief  as  deep  as  its  cause  was  trivial, 
which  met  his  gaze  as  he  entered  his  study,  might  have 
touched  with  anguish  the  heart  of  another  man  on  the 
way  to  a  conviction  of  his  own  injustice.  John  Bal- 
dock had  no  such  feeling.  The  child's  sobs  irritated 
him.  No  impulse  moved  him  to  caresses  or  the  few 
words  which  would  have  brought  sunshine  where  now 
was  heavy  cloud.  He  must  still  play  the  schoolmaster. 

"  Richard,"  he  said  gravely,  "  leave  off  crying  and 
listen  to  me.  You  know  I  have  not  been  pleased  with 
you.  I  have  thought  you  obstinate  and  idle,  and  I  have 
punished  you  for  being  so.  You  learnt  some  of  your 
letters  from  Job.  Why  will  you  not  learn  them  from 
me?" 

The  answer  was  obvious.  John  Baldock  from  the 
height  of  his  own  knowledge  had  so  bullied  and  bad- 


RICHARD  LEARNS  HIS  LETTERS         43 

gered  his  pupil  that  he  had  put  it  out  of  his  power  to 
learn  anything.  But  Richard  was  too  young  to  make 
the  answer.  "  I  don't  know,  father,"  he  said,  tremu- 
lously. 

"  Could  you  learn  from  someone  else,  do  you  think?  " 

This  gleam  of  light  roused  the  small  brain  to  an 
effort. 

"  If  you'd  let  Job  teach  me  my  letters,  father,  with 
gooseberries  and  sticks,  I  would  remember  them." 

"  I  do  not  intend  to  let  Job  teach  you.  He  is  an 
ignorant  man,  and  has  other  things  to  do.  But  it 
seems  to  be  useless  for  me  to  try  to  teach  you  myself 
at  this  stage.  You  either  cannot  or  will  not  learn 
from  me.  I  must  think  what  is  to  be  done.  Learn  you 
certainly  must  from  somebody.  You  would  not  like  to' 
grow  up  an  ignorant  man  like  Job,  would  you?  " 

Now  Job  was  to  Richard  the  embodiment  of  wisdom, 
and  Richard  was  truthful  by  nature,  so  he  replied, 
"  I  should  like  to  be  like  Job,  father,  an'  then  I  could 
ride  harses." 

John  Baldock  turned  away  in  despair.  What  was 
to  be  done  with  a  being  so  lost  to  the  gravity  of  life 
as  this?  He  gave  up  the  large  problem  and  seized  on 
the  small  offence. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Harses !  "  he  exclaimed, 
irritably.  "Don't  you  know  better  than  that?  Say 
c  horses.'  " 

Richard  repeated  the  word  obediently.  "Don't  let 
me  hear  you  say  *  harse  '  again,"  commanded  his  father. 
"  It  is  not  *  harse  ' ;  it  is  *  horse.'  You  may  go  now, 
and  I  shall  not  want  you  here  to-morrow  morning." 

"Can  I  keep  my  bunny  rabbit,  father?"  pleaded 
the  small  dismissed  one.  "  I  do  love  my  rabbit." 

His  father  was  visited  by  a  touch  of  compunction, 


44  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

the  first  fruits  of  his  workings  of  conscience.  "  You 
may  keep  your  rabbit  if  you  are  good,"  he  said. 

The  result  of  John  Baldock's  subsequent  reflections 
was  that  the  child  was  undoubtedly  difficult  to  man- 
age, and  that  he  was  in  the  right  to  correct  him, 
severely  if  need  be,  but  that  it  was  quite  possible — no, 
he  would  be  honest — it  was  probable  that  he  himself 
had  been  somewhat  to  blame  in  the  matter  of  lessons. 
If  so  his  offence  had  been  purged  from  Richard's  point 
of  view  by  the  rescinding  of  his  punishment,  and  with 
regard  to  his  own  soul's  health — an  important  point 
this,  with  John  Baldock — by  a  resolve  he  made  to 
take  no  further  notice  of  Job's  plain  speaking.  He 
would  not  have  known  where  to  find  a  substitute  had 
he  lost  Job's  services,  but  he  ignored  that  fact.  No 
great  harm  had  been  done,  but  the  mistake — very  well, 
then,  if  conscience  insisted,  the  fault — should  not  occur 
again.  There  was  something  wrong  in  his  method  of 
laying  the  foundations  of  learning,  however  capable 
he  had  proved  himself  of  building  on  to  them  when 
once  laid.  What  was  the  solution?  Ah,  he  had  it. 
He  would  go  and  call  the  next  day  on  Mrs.  Meaking. 

Mrs.  Meaking  was  the  widow  of  a  former  Beechurst 
schoolmaster,  and  lived  in  a  pretty  cottage  in  the  vil- 
lage, supporting  herself  and  her  only  child,  a  boy  a 
few  years  older  than  Richard  Baldock,  by  taking  in 
needlework  and  keeping  a  small  day  school.  This 
school  was  for  the  benefit  of  those  children  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood whose  parents  thought  it  more  dignified  to 
pay  a  small  sum  per  week  to  have  them  indifferently 
taught  by  Mrs.  Meaking  than  to  permit  them  to  receive 
a  good  education  at  the  village  school  for  nothing. 
Both  the  number  of  scholars  and  the  sum  paid  for 
each  of  them  was  naturally  small,  for  Beechurst  con- 


RICHARD  LEARNS  HIS  LETTERS         45 

tained  few  inhabitants  above  the  labouring  class,  and 
of  those  few  the  proportion  of  fools  was  not  higher 
than  the  average ;  but  with  the  help  of  the  dressmaking, 
at  which  Mrs.  Meaking  was  decidedly  more  competent 
than  at  imparting  her  small  amount  of  knowledge,  they 
helped  her  to  make  a  living. 

Mrs.  Meaking  had  a  passion  for  gentility,  and  was 
suspected  of  combining  with  it  another  secret  passion 
which  had  the  vicar  for  its  object.  She  was  a  faded 
but  sprightly  woman,  and  was  supported  in  her  pre- 
tensions against  the  ill-disguised  ridicule  of  her  neigh- 
bours by  unbreakable  self-assurance. 

"  This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure,  Mr.  Baldock," 
simpered  Mrs.  Meaking,  genteelly,  when  the  vicar  called 
upon  her  in  pursuance  of  his  object.  "  Pray  take  a 
seat,  and  let  me  offer  you  a  cup  of  tea." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  replied  her  visitor,  "  it  is  only 
three  o'clock.  I  came  to  know  if  your  occupations 
would  permit  you  to  come  to  the  vicarage  for  an  hour 
every  day  except  Sunday,  and  teach  my  son  to  read 
and  write  and  so  on.  For  the  first  month  an  hour  a 
day  would  be  sufficient,  but  after  that  I  should  ask 
you  to  increase  it  to  two." 

Conflicting  emotions  tore  Mrs.  Meaking's  soul  in 
twain.  An  hour  a  day  at  the  vicarage.  An  hour  a  day 
in  Paradise !  But  another  idea  sprang  full-fledged  into 
her  brain.  If  she  could  get  the  vicar's  son  to  attend 
her  school  she  would  be  a  made  woman.  The  scheme  was 
too  alluring  to  be  rejected  in  favour  of  what  would 
after  all  be  an  empty  though  sentimental  delight.  Her 
mind  was  made  up  by  the  time  she  was  required  to  give 
an  answer. 

"  I  shall  be  very  pleased  to  oblige  you  in  the  matter, 
Mr.  Baldock,"  she  replied,  "  but  I  fear  that  my  duties 


46  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

towards  the  young  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  receive  the 
benefits  of  my  modest  curriculum  might  make  it  diffi- 
cult. But  if  you  would  consent " 

"  I  am  aware  that  you  teach  the  children  of  a  few 
of  the  shopkeepers  and  farmers,"  interrupted  the  vicar. 
"  I  think  they  would  be  better  at  the  schools,  but — 

"  Oh,  pardon  me,  Mr.  Baldock,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Meaking  in  her  turn,  "  elementary  studies  they  might 
pursue  with  advantage  at  the  village  school,  but  gen- 
tility, manners,  behaviour — no !  You  could  hardly  ex- 
pect it  under  present  circumstances.  In  my  husband's 
time  when  I  was  at  hand  to " 

Neither  would  allow  the  .other  to  lead  the  conversa- 
tion. The  vicar  interrupted  again.  "  I  have  no  com- 
plaint to  find  with  Mrs.  Waller,"  he  said.  "  The  chil- 
dren are  well  taught  and  kept  in  order.  And  the 
religious  instruction  is  all  that  could  be  wished.  I 
hope  that  you  pay  sufficient  attention  to  that,  Mrs. 
Meaking." 

"  Oh,  indeed,  yes,"  she  replied.  "  The  teaching  of 
religion  is  almost  a  hobby  with  me.  There  is  not  one 
of  my  pupils  who  cannot  say  the  Ten  Commandments, 
both  backwards  and  forwards,  and  everything  else  that 
the  Church  instructs  us  to  teach  the  young  they  are 
taught,  and  taught  thoroughly.  But  now,  Mr.  Bal- 
dock, if  you  will  allow  me  to  make  a  suggestion,  why 
not  let  Master  Baldock  attend  my  modest  seminary? 
I  woul  .  take  the  utmost  care  that  he  should  not  be 
contai  anated  by  the  companionship  of  his  inferiors 
in  stf  :ion.  In  fact,  I  would  undertake  to  keep  him  in  a 

class  entirely  apart,  and  I  might  even — a  curtain " 

She  paused  for  a  moment's  consideration. 

"  I  should  not  want  that,"  said  the  vicar.  "  I  have 
no  objection  to  his  mixing  with  tht  well-behaved  chil- 


RICHARD  LEARNS  HIS  LETTERS         47 

dren  of  the  village.  In  fact,  now  you  put  the  idea  into 
ray  head,  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  the  village 
school " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Baldock !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Meaking, 
aghast  at  this  destructive  acceptance  of  her  sugges- 
tion, "  surely  you  could  never  consider  such  an  idea ! 
The  dirt  and  roughness  of  some  of  the  village  children 
is  beyond  belief.  Indeed  it  is.  I  beg  of  you  not  to 
submit  your  child  to  it.  Let  me  look  after  him.  Let 
me  bring  him  up  in  the  way  that  he  should  go — I  do 
not  wish  to  be  irreverent — and  I  give  you  my  word  that 
you  will  never  regret  it." 

"  What  children  come  here  to  be  taught  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  The  little  Worbys,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  the  children  of 
Mrs.  Worbj7  of  Brook  Farm — Mrs.  Worby's  uncle  was 
a  surgeon ;  a  son  of  Mr.  Cutbush,  Mr.  Ventrey's  head — 
er — horticultural  adviser;  Mr.  Bilberry's  son  and 
daughter — the  Bilberry  of  the  Stores,  not  the  rabbit- 
catcher — there  is  a  relationship,  I  believe,  but  it  is 
distant;  the  three  children  of  Mr.  Humby,  the  mail 
carrier,  two  boys  and  a  girl,  the  son  and  daughter  of 
Mrs.  Orphan,  who  certainly  does  occasional  domestic 
work,  in  your  own  establishment  among  others,  I  be- 
lieve, but  whose  husband  was  in  the  sanitary  engineer- 
ing business,  and  my  own  son,  Montague — eleven 
in  all.  Master  Baldock  would  make  the  round 
dozen." 

"  The  children  of  a  small  farmer,  a  gardener,  a 
grocer,  a  postman,  a  charwoman,  widow  of  a  plumber, 
and  your  own  child,"  commented  the  vicar,  not  with  an 
idea  of  bringing  Mrs.  Meaking  low,  but  merely  for  his 
own  mental  enlightenment ;  "  as  far  as  I  know  them  all 
well-behaved  children,  and  from  respectable  homes. 
No,  I  have  no  objection  to  Richard's  associating  with 


48  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

any  of  these,  but  I  should  wish  to  be  consulted  if  you 
thought  of  taking  any  more  pupils,  Mrs.  Meaking." 

"  I  should  not  think  of  doing  so,  Mr.  Baldock.  In- 
deed, my  apartment  would  unfortunately  not  permit  of 
it  at  present,  though  I  live  in  hopes  of  moving  some 
day  to  better  premises.  I  am  quite  ashamed  to  receive 
you  in  such  a  place  as  this.  It  is  not  what  I  have  been 
accustomed  to.  My  early  home  was  very  different,  and 
even  the  school-house,  although  not  entirely  what  I 
could  wish,  was " 

"  Then  I  think  we  may  consider  the  matter  settled," 
said  the  vicar.  "  To-day  is  Saturday.  Richard  shall 
begin  on  Monday.  I  shall  inquire  from  time  to  time 
as  to  his  progress,  and  wish  to  be  informed  of  any 
insubordination  on  his  part,  although  I  trust  there 
may  be  none  to  report.  As  to  terms,  I  will  pay  the 
same  as  the  other  parents.  What  are  they?  " 

Mrs.  Meaking  told  him,  with  a  slightly  lengthened 
face.  They  were  not  excessive,  and  the  vicar,  express- 
ing himself  satisfied,  took  his  leave. 


CHAPTER   V 

MRS.  MEAKING'S  SCHOOL 

AND  so  Richard  began  his  school  life. 

Mrs.  Meaking's  pupils  sat  at  a  long  table  in  her 
general  sitting-room,  herself  at  the  head.  At  the  top 
of  the  class  was  Master  Montague  Meaking,  a  boy  of 
eight,  with  a  shock  of  stubborn  hair  and  a  very  bright 
eye.  He  signalized  the  enrolment  of  a  new  pupil  by 
putting  out  his  tongue  and  screwing  up  his  face  into  a 
shape  expressive  of  disgust  and  contempt  whenever  he 
could  do  so  unobserved  by  his  mother.  But  he  did  it 
once  too  often,  and  was  surprised  by  a  box  on  the  ear, 
delivered  with  great  force,  and  a  voluble  outburst  from 
Mrs.  Meaking  to  which  the  whole  class  except  himself 
disposed  themselves  to  listen  with  obvious  enjoyment. 

Richard  learnt,  when  he  became  a  little  older,  that 
the  monotony  of  lessons  could  be  varied  by  giving 
Mrs.  Meaking  occasion  for  what  was  popularly  known 
as  a  "  jaw."  There  was  some  risk  to  the  pupil  who 
set  her  haranguing,  but  the  bolder  spirits  were  pre- 
pared to  take  it  for  the  sake  of  the  reward,  and  showed 
great  ingenuity  in  providing  her  with  subjects  which 
should  not  recoil  on  themselves.  Master  Meaking  was 
the  leader  in  these  excursions  as  in  all  others,  but 
Richard  himself  later  on  disputed  his  supremacy  where 
superior  finesse  was  required. 

On  this  occasion  he  sat  open-mouthed  while  Mrs. 
Meaking  held  forth,  to  the  accompaniment  of  melodious 
bellowings  from  her  son.  "  To  think,"  she  cried,  "  that 

49 


50  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

a  child  of  mine  should  be  so  wicked  as  to  behave  in  that 
way  to  his  superior  in  station.  Have  I  not  told  you  all 
times  without  number,  that  the  clergy  belong  to  the 
upper  classes,  and  are  to  be  treated  with  respect? 
And  what  applies  to  them  applies  to  their  offspring. 
Master  Richard  Baldock,  I  publicly  apologize  to  you 
for  my  son's  impertinence.  In  joining  our  little  class — 
leave  off  at  once,  Montague,  or  I'll  take  the  stick  to 
you — you  have  conferred  a  distinction  on  us,  and  one 
which  I  will  have  every  young  lady  and  gentleman  in 
this  school  aware  of.  And  you  especially,  Montague — 
will  you  adone  with  your  noise,  now? — whose  station 
in  life  is  higher  than  that  of  your  schoolfellows — no 
offence  to  Miss  Worby's  great-uncle — you  who  belong 
to  the  teaching  or  professional  class — you  ought  to  be 
specially  ashamed  of  yourself.  Very  well,  then,  if  you 
will  not  hold  your  noise,  hold  out  your  hand." 

A  painful  scene  followed  which  was  as  inexplicable  to 
the  five-year-old  Richard  as  the  previous  harangue,  for 
he  had  never  been  beaten  himself  and  had  no  previous 
idea  that  he  possessed  any  special  precedence  in  the 
social  scale,  or  indeed  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  a 
social  scale  at  all. 

Knowledge  of  this  sort,  however,  was  not  likely  to 
be  withheld  from  him  for  long  under  Mrs.  Mea- 
king's  tuition.  It  formed,  in  fact,  her  chief  stock 
in  trade,  and  was  drummed  into  her  pupils  at  every 
turn.  So  much  so,  indeed,  that  she  defeated  her 
own  object.  Little  Richard  had  not  been  many  days 
going  to  and  from  Mrs.  Meaking's  cottage  to  his  les- 
sons before  he  discovered  that  to  be  a  member  of  what 
she  called  her  seminary  meant  the  sustaining  of  untold 
insults  at  the  hands  of  all  the  village  children  who 
did  not  enjoy  that  advantage.  He  and  any  other  of 


MRS.  MEAKING'S  SCHOOL  51 

his  small  companions  in  misfortune  who  might  be  in  his 
company  were  assailed  with  constant  jeers  and  bodily 
assaults.  "  There  go  the  little  ladies  and  gentlemen," 
was  the  rallying  cry  of  their  tormentors ;  and  they 
were  seen  at  all  unoccupied  hours  of  the  day  scurrying 
here  and  there  for  safety.  Their  lives  were  a  constant 
series  of  ambushes,  skirmishes,  and  ignominious  flights, 
for  their  numbers  were  small  and  the  stamina  of  most 
of  them  insignificant.  Montague  Meaking  might  have 
created  some  diversions  in  favour  of  the  persecuted 
party,  for  he  was  a  sturdy  rascal  and  ready  with  his 
fists,  but  he  had  shamelessly  thrown  in  his  lot  with  the 
aggressors,  and  no  tongue  was  exercised  with  more 
scathing  emphasis  than  his  in  pouring  scorn  and  de- 
rision on  the  unfortunate  children  whose  parents  con- 
tributed to  his  mother's  support  and  his  own. 

Richard  and  Master  Montague  Meaking,  commonly 
known  as  Pug  Meaking,  in  reference  to  a  certain  blunt- 
ness  of  facial  conformation,  were  not  altogether 
strangers  to  each  other.  Richard  had  once  come  across 
him  on  a  predatory  excursion  in  one  of  the  overgrown 
shrubberies  of  the  vicarage  garden,  and  instead  of 
announcing  his  presence  to  Job,  who  was  working  hard 
by,  had  welcomed  him  as  a  companion  and  shared 
ornithological  secrets  with  him.  The  surreptitious  visit 
had  been  repeated  more  than  once,  and  the  two  children 
were  by  way  of  becoming  cronies,  Richard's  inferiority 
of  age  being  balanced  by  his  forward  intelligence.  It 
therefore  caused  him  considerable  surprise,  which  lasted 
through  the  stirring  hours  of  his  first  morning's  les- 
sons, to  be  received  by  his  former  friend  in  the  way 
that  has  been  described,  and  his  surprise  was  not  at 
all  lessened  when,  school  being  over  and  he  on  his  way 
home,  he  was  overtaken  by  Master  Montague  Meaking, 


52  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

who  planted  himself  immediately  in  his  path,  protruded 
his  face  until  it  came  within  a  few  inches  of  that  of  the 
astonished  Richard,  and  said  in  a  tone  of  concentrated 
scorn,  "  Yah !  Gentleman ! " 

Richard  was  too  thunderstruck  by  this  address  to 
reply,  but  Samson  Bilberry,  a  weedy  boy  of  nine, 
in  spectacles,  who  was  of  the  party,  spoke  up  for 
him. 

"  You  better  be  careful,  Pug  Meaking,"  he  gave 
warning.  "  We'll  tell  his  farver  an'  you'll  git  someping 
you  don't  like." 

"  And  who  asked  you  to  speak,  Sam  Bilberry?  "  in- 
quired Master  Meaking,  truculently.  "  You're  a  gen- 
tleman yourself.  Yah ! " 

"  Well,  an'  ain't  you  a  gentleman  ?  "  spoke  up  Miss 
Bilberry,  tartly. 

"  No,  never,  I  ain't,"  responded  Master  Meaking. 
"  And  I'll  punch  anyone's  'ead  who  says  I  am." 

"  You  are  I  You  are ! "  shouted  the  children  in 
chorus,  and  Master  Meaking  darted  into  the  group  of 
them,  arms  and  legs  flying,  and  dealt  promiscuous 
blows,  one  of  which  fell  to  Richard's  share,  who,  more 
bewildered  than  hurt,  began  to  cry. 

"  There,  now  you  done  it ! "  said  Miss  Bilberry. 
"  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  that  you  ought, 
a  real  little  gentleman  too.  Never  mind,  Master  Rich- 
ard. You  tell  on  him,  dear,  and  he'll  soon  learn  to 
leave  you  alone.  Ah,  well  you  may  run,  Pug  Meaking. 
Gentleman  yourself !  There !  " 

The  next  moment  Miss  Bilberry  was  running  herself 
as  fast  as  she  was  able,  for  the  village  school  hard  by 
was  pouring  out  its  tale  of  urchins,  and  the  roadway 
was  no  longer  a  safe  place  of  congregation  for  the 
disciples  of  Mrs.  Meaking. 


MRS.  MEAKING'S  SCHOOL  55 

It  was  not  long  before  Richard's  spirit  was  worked 
up  to  a  definite  conflict  of  will  with  Master  Montague 
Meaking,  whose  daily  insults  had  reached  a  high  pitch 
of  offensiveness.  To  do  that  young  gentleman  justice, 
the  fact  of  his  siding  with  the  majority  in  the  feud  be- 
tween the  children  of  the  village  school  and  those  taught 
with  himself  did  not  arise  from  cowardice,  but  from 
a  genuine  contempt  of  the  standards  applied  by  his 
mother.  He  loved  the  rough  companionship  of  boy 
life,  with  its  eager  alliances,  adventures,  and  conflicts, 
and  could  only  find  scope  for  his  energies  among  the 
sturdy  young  rascals  not  under  the  influence  of  Mrs. 
Meaking's  gentilities.  He  had  fought  his  way  against 
many  odds  in  their  company,  and  was  fighting  his 
way  into  leadership  among  them.  Their  standards 
were  his,  and  he  hated  the  sham  code  of  manners  by 
which  his  mother  sought  to  temper  the  hardy  roughness 
of  the  children  under  her  charge.  That  his  wholesome 
contempt  for  the  code  and  the  ambitions  it  instilled 
should  have  extended  itself  to  the  unfortunate  beings 
who,  like  himself,  were  in  subjection  to  it,  need  not  sur- 
prise anyone  who  has  any  acquaintance  with  the  habits 
of  a  boy's  mind.  Nevertheless,  to  little  Richard,  who 
was  made  of  finer  clay,  there  seemed  something  wrong 
in  his  attitude ;  and  after  he  had  suffered  under  Master 
Meaking's  taunts  for  a  few  weeks,  he  embarked  boldly 
on  his  first  effort  at  getting  at  the  bottom  of  things. 

He  was  playing  a  solitary  game  of  his  own  inven- 
tion in  the  densities  of  the  vicarage  shrubbery,  when  he 
came  upon  his  one-time  friend,  bent,  as  before,  on  a 
marauding  expedition. 

"  Hullo,"  said  Montague,  amicably ;  "  let's  'ave  a 
game  of  Red  Indians." 

Richard  stood  squarely  in  front  of  him,  his  chubby 


54 

fists  doubled  up  on  his  hips.  "  I  don't  want  to  play 
with  you,"  he  said.  "  You're  not  my  friend." 

"  Oh,  come  on,"  replied  Montague,  milder  than  usual 
under  his  sense  of  trespass ;  "  we'll  have  pax  in  here." 

"  No,  we  won't,"  said  little  Richard.  "  You're  not 
my  friend  any  more.  You  are  always  rude  and  rough 
to  all  of  us." 

"  That's  'cos  you're  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said 
Montague.  "  We  needn't  mind  that  here,  because 
you're  not  a  bad  kid,  and  you  can't  help  being  a  gen- 
tleman." 

"  But  you  are  just  the  same  as  we  are,"  said  Richard. 
"I  fink  it's  very  mean  to  be  just  the  same  and  to  pre- 
tend you're  not.  If  you  wasn't  bigger  and  stronger 
than  us  you  couldn't  do  it." 

"  You're  all  little  softies,  Dickie  Baldock.  I  like 
boys ;  I  don't  like  softies." 

"  I  like  boys,  too,  Pug  Meaking,"  replied  little  Rich- 
ard, "  an'  I  shall  be  as  big  as  you  some  day.  But  I 
won't  be  rude  and  rough  to  little  boys,  'specially  when 
they  can't  help  it.  I  fink  it's  mean." 

"  Don't  you  say  I'm  mean,  Dickie  Baldock." 

"  I  fink  you  are,  Pug  Meaking ;  an'  I  shall  »ay  it  if 
I  want  to." 

"  What's  mean  in  me?  " 

"  What  I  said.  If  you  wasn't  mean,  you'd  help  us 
when  the  others  run  after  us,  'stead  of  pretending  you 
wasn't  the  same  as  us." 

"  If  you  don't  say  I'm  not  mean,  Dickie  Baldock, 
I'll  give  you  a  licking." 

"  No,  you  won't,  Pug  Meaking;  you  won't  dare  to." 

"  I  suppose  you'd  holler  out  and  sneak  on  me." 

"  I  wouldn't  sneak,  but  you  wouldn't  dare  to  touch 
me." 


MRS.  HEARING'S  SCHOOL  55 

"Oh,  wouldn't  I?" 

"  No." 

The  usual  deadlock  in  small  boys'  quarrels  here  oc- 
curred, when  the  blood  of  neither  is  heated  up  to  the 
point  of  assault.  Richard  possessed  the  moral  advan- 
tage, and  presented  it  with  a  dauntless  front.  His 
adversary,  influenced,  we  may  hope,  by  a  conviction 
that  the  charge  brought  against  him  was  not  entirely 
baseless,  lowered  his  colours. 

"  Well,  I  ain't  going  to  lick  you  now,"  he  said,  "  'cos 
I  believe  you'd  holler  out.  You're  a  sneak ;  and  I  don't 
want  Job  Wilding  after  me." 

"  No,  I  said  you  wouldn't  dare,"  replied  Richard. 
"  Job's  bigger  and  stronger  than  you.  It's  only  little 
boys  and  girls  you're  not  afraid  of." 

"  If  you  say  that  I'll  give  you  a  licking  straight," 
said  Montague.  "  I've  fought  with  lots  of  boys  older 
and  stronger  than  me,  and  licked  them,  too.  And  I 
ain't  afraid  of  Job  Wilding — not  me !  " 

"Oh,  you  ain't,  ain't  you?"  put  in  a  gruff  voice 
at  his  ear,  as  Job  Wilding  himself  appeared  from  be- 
hind a  thick  laurel  bush  and  dealt  him  a  cuff  which 
sent  him  spinning  round  with  his  elbow  up  to  his  ear 
and  an  injured  expression  on  his  countenance.  "  Now 
you  just  be  off,  you  lousy  young  varmint;  and  if  I 
catch  you  on  these  premises  again  I'll  have  you  locked 
up.  I've  heard  what  you've  been  saying,  and  Master 
Richard's  quite  right.  You're  a  cowardly  young  toad, 
for  all  your  brag  and  bounce,  and  you  may  tell  your 
mother  I  said  so.  You  save  your  own  bacon,  an'  turn 
round  an'  bully  the  young  'uns.  You  let  me  catch  you 
a  bullying  of  'em  again,  an'  I'll  give  you  a  hiding 
myself,  and  one  you  won't  forget  in  a  hurry.  Now  you 
just  be  off  out  o'  this." 


56  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

Master  Meaking  departed,  and  so  far  took  to  heart 
the  criticism  to  which  he  had  been  subjected  that  he 
refrained  thereafter  from  active  methods  of  aggres- 
sion against  his  small  schoolfellows. 

The  rest  of  the  village  boys,  however,  continued  to 
indulge  in  the  pleasures  of  the  chase  whenever  one  of 
Mrs.  Meaking's  scholars  came  within  their  purview, 
until  Richard,  who,  for  all  his  growing  self-reliance, 
was  hardly  yet  out  of  babyhood,  came  home  crying 
with  a  lump  on  his  head  produced  by  a  thrown  stone. 
Sarah  attended  to  his  wound  with  an  accompaniment 
of  scoldings,  and  then  sallied  forth  to  demand  justice, 
scandalized  at  this  breach  in  the  sanctities  attaching 
to  the  vicarage.  She  first  visited  Mrs.  Meaking,  who 
could  hardly  be  said  to  be  responsible  for  the  outrage, 
but  with  whom  she  had  for  some  time  been  spoiling  for 
an  outspoken  conversation,  considering  that  she  gave 
herself  intolerable  airs,  though  no  better  than  other 
people. 

Mrs.  Meaking's  cottage  was  one  of  the  prettiest  in 
the  village.  It  was  half-timbered,  and  little  dormer 
windows  peeped  out  from  under  thatch  shaded  by  the 
branches  of  a  great  elm.  You  went  through  a  wicket- 
gate  and  up  a  steep  path  bordered  with  phloxes,  mal- 
lows, and  hollyhocks,  and  you  walked  through  a  little 
porch,  over  which  ramped  a  white  rose  of  the  kind 
known  as  "  the  Seven  Sisters,"  and  straight  into  the 
sitting-room.  This  was  long  and  low,  and  oak-raftered. 
It  had  a  latticed  window  and  a  generous  hearth,  with 
a  high  overmantel,  bordered  by  a  chintz  hanging. 
Here  fitness  ended,  for  Mrs.  Meaking  had  furnished  her 
room  with  the  cheap  monstrosities  belonging  to  her 
age,  and  had  dealt  with  her  apartment  as  far  as  pos- 
sible as  if  it  were  the  parlour  of  a  small  villa.  She 


MRS.  MEAKING'S  SCHOOL  «T 

was  accustomed  to  bemoan  her  fate  in  baring  been 
forced  to  leave  the  Cockney  brick-built  slate-roofed 
school-house,  with  its  two  mean  little  bow-windowed 
parlours  and  its  narrow  passage-way.  It  was  com- 
monly said  to  have  been  a  greater  grief  to  her  to 
give  up  her  drawing-room,  her  dining-room,  and  her 
hall  than  to  lose  her  husband.  She  certainly  bemoaned 
the  loss  of  the  one  more  frequently  than  that  of  the 
other. 

Old  Sarah,  in  close-fitting  black  bonnet,  beaded  spen- 
cer and  voluminous  skirts,  her  mouth  set  firmly, 
marched  up  the  flagged  path  and  knocked  at  the  door 
with  her  umbrella.  It  was  opened  by  Mrs.  Meaking, 
who  was  exercising  her  secondary  occupation  of  dress- 
maker and  held  the  implements  of  that  occupation, 
some  in  her  hand  and  some  in  her  mouth.  Her  face  as- 
sumed its  mincing  expression  when  she  recognized  the 
visitor.  **  Oh,  pray  step  in,  Mrs.  Wellbeloved,"  she 
said.  "  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  the  room  rather 
untidy,  but  with  this  wretched  little  place  I  am  unable 
to  keep  a  room  into  which  to  hand  callers." 

"  Don't  name  it,  ma'am,"  said  Sarah.  "  I  am  only 
a  servant  and  am  not  accustomed  to  such.  I  keep 
my  place  and  should  wish  that  others  were  as  ready  to 
do  the  same,  instead  of  aping  the  ways  of  their  betters.'* 

Mrs.  Meaking  accepted  battle  at  once.  She  was 
quite  accustomed  to  having  her  pretensions  made  the 
subject  of  remark  to  her  face,  and  was  ready  to  defend 
them  at  all  times. 

"  Meaning  me,  I  suppose,  ma'am,"  she  said  sharply, 
standing  in  front  of  her  visitor  and  preventing  her 
coming  farther  into  the  room.  "  But  I'll  have  you  to 
know  that  if  you  are  a  servant  I  am  not  a  servant,  and 
never  was  a  servant,  but  on  the  contrary  was  brought 


58  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

up  where  servants  were  kept,  and  never  obliged  to  do 
a  hand's  turn,  and  kept  them  myself  in  days  more  fortu- 
nate, as  you  very  well  know." 

"  A  chit  from  the  village  at  two  pun  ten  a  year  and 
her  victuals,  and  not  much  of  'em,"  retorted  Sarah. 
"  But  it  don't  signify.  May  I  ask  whether  it  is  the 
habit  in  genteel  circles  to  keep  a  visitor  standing  in 
the  door  and  not  dust  a  seat  for  her?  " 

"  The  seats  in  my  room,  poor  as  it  is,  don't  want 
dusting,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Meaking,  quivering.  "  If 
you  come  to  pay  me  a  friendly  call  you'll  be  asked  in 
and  made  welcome.  When  you  come  to  make  yourself 
unpleasant  you  can  stand  in  the  door  and  say  what 
you've  got  to  say,  or  take  yourself  off  the  way  you 
came,  whichever  you  please." 

"  I've  come  to  say  this,  ma'am,"  spoke  up  old  Sarah. 
"  Little  Master  Richard  has  come  home  with  a  lump 
on  his  head  as  big  as  a  small  potato.  He  never  did 
ought,  in  my  opinion,  to  have  been  sent  here  to  get  a 
pack  of  rubbish  put  into  his  head,  but  my  opinion 
wasn't  asked " 

"  No?  and  not  likely  to  be,"  interpolated  Mrs.  Mea- 
king. 

"  That's  as  may  be,  ma'am,  though  my  opinion  is 
worth  more  than  that  of  some  who'd  give  their  ears  for 
it  to  be  asked  of  them  in  quarters  that  shall  be  name- 
less. But  if  you  haven't  got  sense  to  put  inside  the 
child's  head  which  is  well  beknown,  it's  your  duty  to 
see  that  the  outside  ain't  damaged,  and  if  you  can't  do 
it  I'll  acquaint  the  child's  pa,  and  we'll  see  what'll 
happen." 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  insinuate,  ma'am,  that  it  was 
me  who  hurt  the  child's  head  ?  " 

"  I  mean  to  say,  ma'am,  that  the  child  has  been  hurt 


MRS.  HEARING'S  SCHOOL  59 

and  might  have  been  killed.  He's  under  your  care  at 
such  times  as  he  is  not  at  home  under  mine,  and  it's 
your  place  to  stop  such  goings  on." 

"  And  how  can  I  stop  it?  Well  known  it  is  to  you, 
Sarah  Wellbeloved,  that  the  rough  boys  and  girls  of 
this  village,  not  having  anybody  to  teach  them  man- 
ners nowadays,  make  a  practice,  to  which  they  are 
encouraged  by  those  who  ought  to  know  better,  of  per- 
secuting the  children  whose  parents  wish  them  to  be 
brought  up  with  gentility,  and  send  them  to  my  school 
with  that  object." 

"  Gentility,"  sniffed  Sarah.  "  Airs  you  mean,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  No,  ma'am,  I  do  not  mean  airs.  I  mean  what  I 
say;  I  say  gentility,  and  I  mean  gentility.  It  is  gen- 
tility that  is  persecuted  in  this  village,  because  people 
are  so  ignorant  that  they  look  down  upon  it.  I  wish  I 
could  have  some  of  them  in  Hackney,  where  I  was 
brought  up.  Their  rough  manners  wouldn't  carry  them 
very  far  there,  I  can  tell  you,  and  they  would  soon 
find  the  difference  between  their  station  and  mine." 

"  You're  so  full  up  of  your  station,  ma'am,"  replied 
Sarah,  "  that  you  haven't  got  time  to  think  of  other 
people's.  Master  Richard  is  as  much  above  you  as  you 
think  yourself  above  others.  You  ought  to  be  proud 
to  be  allowed  to  have  the  vicar's  son  coming  here  in- 
stead of  your  being  had  up  to  the  vicarage  and  told  to 
wait  in  the  hall  till  the  breakfast's  cleared  away  and 
there's  a  table  for  you.  And  here's  the  child  made  a 
scapegrace  of  all  on  account  of  your  pack  of  sham 
genteel  whippersnappers  what  'ud  be  treated  peaceful 
and  same  as  ordinary  if  it  wasn't  for  the  rubbish  they're 
taught  here.  I  beg  to  acquaint  you,  ma'am,  that  I 
shall  not  let  the  matter  drop  here.  If  I  can't  get  satis- 


60  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

faction  out  of  you,  I  shall  go  elsewhere,  and  we  shall 
see  what  we  shall  see." 

Mrs.  Meaking  saw  her  way.  "  You  are  quite  right 
to  lodge  a  complaint  with  me,  Miss  Wellbeloved,"  she 
said  loftily,  "  for  I  believe  you  have  no  right  to  the 
title  of  Mrs. — though  your  behaviour  in  doing  so  is 
most  unbecoming  in  a  servant  towards  a  lady.  I  shall 
complain  to  the  proper  quarters  myself,  and  if  you  are 
going  back  to  the  Vicarage  I  shall  be  obliged  if  you 
will  kindly  tell  your  master  that  I  am  coming  to  call 
on  him  in  about  half  an  hour's  time." 

"  It'll  take  you  that  to  curl  up  your  best  fringe," 
chuckled  old  Sarah,  not  at  all  put  out  by  the  rebuke. 
"  I  should  make  it  an  hour  if  I  was  you,  and  you  can 
sit  in  the  kitchen  till  the  master's  ready  for  you."  And 
with  that  she  turned  a  meagre  black  back  on  Mrs.  Mea- 
king, and  pottered  down  the  garden  path,  very  well 
satisfied  with  herself. 

A  visit  to  the  mother  of  the  boy  who  she  thought 
was  the  most  likely  to  have  thrown  the  stone  produced 
results  as  satisfactory.  She  got  a  cup  of  tea  and  a 
good  gossip,  during  which  she  retailed  to  the  delight 
of  herself  and  her  hearer  the  particulars  of  her  late 
conversation  with  Mrs.  Meaking,  and  not  the  slightest 
reluctance  was  shown  to  give  full  credit  to  her  accusa- 
tion. The  supposed  culprit,  who  could  have  proved  a 
satisfactory  alibi  if  he  had  been  allowed  to  call  up  his 
witnesses,  was  dealt  with  in  a  thoroughly  drastic  man- 
ner in  her  presence,  and  if  she  had  not  done  little 
Richard  much  good  by  her  advocacy  she  had  spent  a 
thoroughly  enjoyable  afternoon,  and  went  back  to  her 
household  duties  at  the  Vicarage  in  high  good  humour. 

Here  Mrs.  Meaking  had  preceded  her,  and,  putting  a 
genuine  grievance  with  more  than  her  customary  direct- 


MRS.  HEARING'S  SCHOOL  61 

ness,  had  received  promises  of  redress.  TTie  vicar 
visited  the  village  school  the  next  morning  and  an- 
nounced such  pains  and  penalties  if  the  persecution  of 
Mrs.  Meaking's  pupils  was  continued  as  to  create  no 
small  effect.  And  the  schoolmaster  backed  him  up,  so 
that  after  a  few  dwindling  alarums  and  excursions  the 
feud  died  down  and  did  not  break  out  again  until  a  few 
years  later,  when  Mrs.  Meaking  decided  to  put  the 
boys  of  her  school  into  mortar  boards.  Then  there  was 
trouble,  but  it  no  longer  affected  Richard  Baldock. 


CHAPTER   VI 

RICHES  INNUMERABLE 

IT  will  have  been  gathered  from  what  has  already  been 
said  that  John  Baldock's  household  was  established  on 
no  very  generous  scale.  He  was  indeed  a  poor  man, 
having  no  income  outside  the  rather  meagre  stipend 
attached  to  his  cure  and  the  few  guineas  he  occasion- 
ally earned  by  his  pen.  Food,  clothing,  warmth  and 
shelter  there  was,  and  little  besides,  but  in  the  ample 
surroundings  of  his  home  Richard  never  felt  the  want 
of  more,  or,  if  he  thought  about  it  at  all,  considered 
himself  rather  rich  and  important  in  comparison  with 
the  village  boys  who  were  his  chief  companions.  Never- 
theless, there  grew  up  within  him  a  conviction  that  his 
life  was  to  be  somehow  different  from  that  of  his  father. 
Sarah,  who  for  a  saint  so  firmly  convinced  of  her  fu- 
ture beatitude  was  singularly  alive  to  the  advantages  of 
temporal  wealth,  when  she  unbent  so  far  as  to  discuss 
his  probable  future  with  him,  always  took  it  for  granted 
that  he  would  be  a  rich  man,  a  very  rich  man.  These 
discussions  were  not  of  course  carried  on  on  the  plane 
of  actualities.  No  small  boy  considers  his  future  career 
otherwise  than  as  an  opportunity  for  boundless  play, 
or  his  occupation  in  life  other  than  as  something  to 
be  done  with  his  hands  in  connection  with  animals  or 
machinery  or  tools  of  some  sort.  It  was  on  the  pos- 
sibilities of  infinite  self-indulgence  in  the  matter  of 
houses  and  servants  and  horses  and  carriages  that 
Sarah  loved  to  dwell,  whenever  the  advantage  of  a 

OS 


RICHES  INNUMERABLE  63 

carpenter's  career  over  that  of  a  coachman  or  an 
engine-driver,  or  some  such  problem,  was  exercising 
Richard's  brain.  She  would  bring  in  a  few  observa- 
tions touching  on  the  responsibilities  of  extreme  wealth 
towards  the  poor,  for  convention's  sake,  but  her  mind 
dwelt  chiefly  on  the  capabilities  of  limitless  riches  for 
providing  an  uncomfortable  amount  of  state,  and  she 
would  expatiate  on  this  subject  at  great  length,  only 
bringing  her  golden  imaginings  down  to  earth  again 
when  Richard  entered  into  them  with  some  plan  of  his 
own.  Then  she  would  rebuke  him  for  arrogance,  and 
remind  him  that  riches  came  only  as  a  reward  for 
virtue,  in  which  commodity  he  was  singularly  lacking. 

And  yet  the  result  of  her  imaginative  excursions 
was  to  leave  him  with  the  impression  that  great  riches 
would  certainly  be  within  his  grasp  in  that  distant  time 
when  he  would  be  grown  up.  Job  would  also  add  some- 
thing to  the  impression  by  supposing  that  when  Master 
Richard  was  full  of  money  he  wouldn't  be  able  to  find 
a  comfortable  little  crib  with  a  cow  and  a  few  pigs 
and  a  pony  and  a  bit  of  garden  for  an  old  man  who 
had  provided  strawberries  and  apples  for  him  in  early 
youth  and  had  come  in  the  course  of  years  to  be  past 
work;  or  that  there  wouldn't  likely  be  room  for  a 
withered  old  man  among  all  the  flunkeys  who'd  sit 
down  to  a  good  dinner  of  beef  and  beer  in  the  servants' 
hall,  every  day  in  the  week  and  every  week  in  the  year. 
Richard,  of  course,  promised  comforts  innumerable  for 
the  declining  years  of  his  childhood's  friend,  and  never 
doubted  but  that  he  would  be  in  a  position  to  supply 
them. 

Then  there  was  Mrs.  Meaking.  Mrs.  Mcaking  also 
had  proposals  to  put  forward  contingent  on  great 
wealth  to  be  possessed  by  Richard,  and  a  somewhat 


64  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

exaggerated  gratitude  on  his  part  towards  herself  for 
services  rendered  to  him  in  youth.  Mrs.  Meaking  was 
to  be  accommodated  with  a  genteel  residence  with  a 
portico  door  and  steps  leading  up  to  it,  where  she 
was  to  be  waited  on  by  two  maids.  She  was  to  have  a 
neat  pony  carriage  and  a  groom-gardener  in  livery, 
and  her  expectations  apparently  included  a  permanent 
claim  on  her  patron's  liberality  whenever  ladies  of  title 
should  be  entertained  at  his  hospitable  board.  "  For," 
said  Mrs.  Meaking,  "  I  should  have  an  evening  dress  of 
rich  black  silk  with  lace  and  a  cameo  brooch,  and  should 
not  disgrace  any  table  either  in  dress  or  manners." 

Richard  fell  in  amicably  with  all  these  various  sug- 
gestions and  even  amended  them  for  the  benefit  of  his 
would-be  pensioners,  and  in  spite  of  his  preference  for 
the  more  humble  career  of  bell-ringer  and  sexton,  or 
general  carrier,  or  in  more  expansive  moments  for  that 
of  "agister  "  in  the  forest,  acquired  the  impression  that 
the  line  of  life  marked  out  for  him  was  that  of  luxurious 
independence. 

It  was  not  until  he  reached  the  age  of  ten  that  any 
light  was  thrown  on  the  subject  by  his  father.  The 
future  then  opened  itself  out  to  him  in  a  way  to  set  him 
casting  forward.  He  had  borrowed  "  Tom  Brown's 
Schooldays  "  from  the  village  library,  and  had  been 
fascinated  with  the  picture  shown  in  that  book  of  the 
common  life  of  work  and  play  led  by  boys  not  much 
older  than  himself.  Life  at  a  public  school,  or,  rather, 
life  at  Rugby — for  he  scarcely  knew  the  names  of  any 
others — seemed  to  him  the  only  life  worth  leading,  and 
he  trembled  with  desire  to  possess  it,  only  to  be  sad- 
dened by  the  thought  that  it  was  not  for  him,  for  the 
status  of  Squire  Brown  had  taken  hold  of  his  imagi- 
nation as  an  exalted  one,  and  that  of  his  own  father 


RICHES  INNUMERABLE  65 

seemed  far  beneath  it.  Then  the  impression  of  his 
own  future  as  somewhat  exalted,  too,  came  to  encour- 
age him  with  a  hope  that  it  might  even  include  such 
delights  as  those  he  had  been  reading  of,  and  he  deter- 
mined to  put  a  question  to  his  father. 

This  was  a  rather  daring  undertaking,  for  John 
Baldock  did  not  welcome  questions  unless  they  had 
some  bearing  on  religious  matters,  when  they  were 
taken  as  possible  indications  of  the  striving  of  the 
Spirit.  With  the  guile  bred  in  the  most  transparent 
child's  nature  by  constant  association  with  unnatural 
standards  of  life,  Richard  would  sometimes  seek  to 
bend  his  father's  mind  toward  amiability  by  affecting 
an  interest  in  things  he  cared  as  little  about  as  most 
children,  using  words  and  glib  expressions  which  had  a 
meaning  to  those  from  whom  he  heard  them,  although 
none  to  him.  He  did  so  on  this  occasion,  putting  a 
profound  question  about  the  universality  of  grace, 
which  had  cost  him  much  anxious  mental  preparation 
and  had  already  been  experimentally  propounded  to 
Sarah,  who  had  waded  far  out  of  her  depth  in  en- 
deavouring to  fish  up  an  answer  to  it.  It  was  so  far 
successful  in  that  it  did  not  bring  down  upon  him  a 
stern  rebuke  for  the  light  handling  of  holy  things,  and 
the  vicar  answered  it  gravely  and  categorically,  leav- 
ing Richard  at  leisure  to  project  his  mind  in  a  pleasant 
wandering  among  the  cloud-buildings  of  an  imaginary 
Rugby  Close.  When  the  subject  had  been  discussed  a 
little  further,  Richard  being  very  careful  not  to  dis- 
sipate the  good  impression  he  had  made  by  venturing  on 
to  ground  he  had  not  sufficiently  explored,  his  father 
said : — 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  opened  up  your  heart  to  me 
on  these  matters,  Richard,  It  is  my  only  wish  for 


66  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

you  that  you  should  regard  them  as  all-important. 
Hitherto  I  have  seen  little  in  you  but  lightness  and 
frivolity,  and  I  own  that  I  had  begun  to  fear  that  it 
was  not  God's  will  that  you  should  come  to  a  knowl- 
edge of  Him  whose  awful  vengeance  you  are  so  heed- 
lessly laying  up  for  yourself."  (This  to  a  child  of  ten 
years  old  of  the  Being  who  had  given  him  life!)  "I 
now  have  a  faint  hope  that  this  may  not  be  so,  and 
that  you  may  yet  undergo  that  complete  change  of  heart 
without  which  all  earthly  prosperity  is  dust  and  ashes." 

It  appeared  that  Richard  had  learned  his  lesson  too 
well,  and  he  was  somewhat  ashamed  of  his  success,  for 
he  was  not  a  hypocrite  at  heart,  and  had  a  tender  con- 
science, though  his  father  would  have  been  surprised  to 
hear  it.  He  became,  moreover,  a  little  anxious  as  to 
whether  he  possessed  enough  skill  to  turn  the  conversa- 
tion from  these  deep  channels  towards  an  inquiry  di- 
rected to  so  mundane  an  object  as  a  school  career.  But 
to  his  surprise  his  father  continued: — 

"  Your  attitude  encourages  me  to  allude  to  something 
I  should  not  otherwise  have  touched  on  at  present,  al- 
though the  time  is  coming  when  something  must  be 
said.  You  are  perhaps  aware,  Richard,  that  I  am  a 
poor  man — a  very  poor  man  as  far  as  worldly  goods  are 
concerned,  although  rich  beyond  counting  in  the  treas- 
ure that  is  incorruptible.  I  could  not  even  afford  to 
give  you  the  education  I  had  myself,  nor  do  anything 
towards  what  would  be  called  starting  you  in  life.  I 
could  only  go  on  teaching  you  myself,  as  I  am  doing 
to  the  best  of  my  ability  now,  and  place  you  in  some 
occupation  which  demanded  neither  money  nor  an  ex- 
pensive education  for  entrance.  It  is  true  that  you 
could  serve  God  in  whatever  position  in  life  you  might 
be  placed,  and  the  majority  of  your  fellow  creatures 


RICHES  INNUMERABLE  67 

would  still  not  be  so  well  off  in  their  upbringing  as 
yourself.  But  I  believe  it  to  be  the  duty  of  a  parent, 
however  little  store  he  may  set  upon  worldly  advance- 
ment, not  to  reject  it  for  his  children  if  it  appears  to 
be  the  will  of  God  that  it  should  come  to  them;  and, 
as  far  as  you  are  concerned,  the  wealth  that  has  not 
been  granted  to  me  will  be  provided  for  you  from 
another  quarter." 

This  might  have  been  interesting  to  Richard  if  he 
had  been  ten  or  fifteen  years  older ;  but  he  had  no  wish 
at  that  time  to  possess  the  sort  of  wealth  that  is  spoken 
of  as  his  father  was  speaking  of  it  then.  A  silver  coin, 
however  small,  presented  to  him  with  pleasing  sudden- 
ness, would  have  caused  him  great  delight,  but  he  was 
old  enough  to  know  that,  however  much  money  was  to 
be  provided  for  him  in  the  future,  it  would  be  from, 
quite  a  different  mint  from  that  in  which  were  coined  the 
occasional  coppers  he  knew  so  well  how  to  deal  with 
in  the  present.  His  father's  information  had  so  far 
left  him  cold,  but  he  listened  with  eagerness  for  an 
improbable  mention  of  the  word  school,  which  he  had 
not  as  yet,  in  his  youthful  inexperience,  connected  with 
the  word  education.  His  father  went  on: — 

"  You  know,  I  suppose,  that  your  Aunt  Henrietta, 
who  is  also  your  godmother,  has  taken  a  great  interest 
in  you  ever  since  your  birth  ?  " 

Richard  assented,  but  the  statement  was  news  to 
him.  He  had  never  set  conscious  eyes  on  his  Aunt 
Henrietta,  and  she,  so  far  as  he  knew,  had  never  taken 
the  smallest  trouble  to  become  acquainted  with  him. 
She  had,  it  is  true,  presented  him  at  his  christening 
with  a  heavy  silver  mug,  which  had  been  described  to 
him  by  Sarah,  but  which  he  had  actually  never  seen. 
She  had  followed  this  up  a  few  years  later  with  an 


68  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

expensively  bound  Bible  and  Prayer  Book,  which  his 
father  had  also  impounded — not  so  much,  probably, 
because  he  thought  they  were  too  good  to  use,  as  on 
account  of  the  silver  cross  which  formed  part  of  the 
decoration  of  both — a  symbol  upon  which  John  Bal- 
dock  looked  with  profound  suspicion.  Sometimes  too, 
although  not  invariably  at  Christmas,  or  about  the 
date  of  his  birthday,  his  father  would  show  him  a  piece 
of  crackly  white  paper,  with  the  curt  announcement, 
"  This  is  for  you  from  your  Aunt  Henrietta  " ;  when 
he  would  put  it  away  with  no  further  words  said,  leav- 
ing Richard  with  the  conviction  that  if  his  Aunt  Hen- 
rietta could  not  do  better  than  that  as  a  dispenser  of 
gifts  she  must  be  a  singularly  mean  and  unimagina- 
tive person.  In  fact,  in  spite  of  her  spasmodic  calling 
to  remembrance  of  his  existence,  Richard's  Aunt  Hen- 
rietta had  not  hitherto  been  the  means  of  providing 
him  with  a  single  moment  of  pleasure,  or,  indeed,  of 
interest  in  her,  and  he  was  consequently  not  a  little 
surprised  to  hear  of  the  interest  she  was  now  alleged  to 
have  taken  in  him. 

Also  a  little  incredulous;  but  his  incredulity  was 
immediately  swept  away  by  his  father's  next  statement, 
which  was  to  the  effect  that  when  he  was  of  a  proper 
age  he  was  to  be  sent  to  a  public  school  at  her  ex- 
pense, and  after  that  to  the  University.  The  University 
meant  nothing  to  him,  and  he  did  not  even  connect  it 
with  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  whose  inhabitants  he  be- 
lieved to  have  no  other  purpose  in  life  than  to  row  boat- 
races,  dressed  in  dark  blue  and  light  blue  respectively. 
But  his  delight  may  be  imagined  when  he  learnt  that 
the  school  selected  for  him  was  none  other  than  the 
paradise  of  his  late  dreams,  and  that  he  was  to  be  sent 
there  in  about  three  years'  time. 


RICHES  INNUMERABLE  69 

Well,  if  his  Aunt  Henrietta  had  it  in  her  power  to 
bring  about  such  miracles  as  these,  it  struck  Richard 
that  she  might  be  a  person  worth  learning  something 
about,  although  he  had  not  hitherto  suspected  it.  His 
father  having  completed  a  short  excursus  on  the  temp- 
tations of  school  and  college  life,  and  dismissed  him,  he 
sought  out  Sarah,  whom  he  found  engaged  in  "  count- 
ing the  wash."  As  she  was  quite  unapproachable  on 
such  an  occasion,  he  left  her  with  "  one,  two,  three 
p'r  of ,"  and  went  into  the  garden.  Here  he  dis- 
covered Job  pruning  a  young  apple  tree,  and  not  dis- 
inclined for  conversation. 

"  Job,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  know  what  my  Aunt  Hen- 
rietta is  going  to  do  for  me?  " 

"Do  for  'ee?"  replied  Job.  "No,  that  I  don't. 
But  whatever  it  be  I  reckon  it  won't  bring  her  to 
poverty  a  day  sooner." 

Richard  was  too  excited  to  endeavour  to  disengage 
the  meaning  underlying  this  utterance.  "  She's  going 
to  send  me  to  school,"  he  said,  "  to  Rugby.  Have  you 
ever  heard  of  Rugby,  Job?  " 

"  Have  I  ever  heerd  of  Rugby  ?  "  echoed  Job,  who 
obviously  had  not.  "  Ah,  you  may  well  ask.  And 
that's  where  she's  agoing  for  to  send  'ee?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Richard.  "  And  she  has  taken  an  inter- 
est in  me  ever  since  I  was  born." 

"  Have  she  now?  "  replied  Job  in  his  most  interested 
manner.  "  We  live  from  year  to  year  and  rise  up  and 
lay  down,  and  what  we  don't  know  to-day  we  shall  learn 
to-morrow." 

"Have  you  ever  seen  my  Aunt  Henrietta,  Job?" 

"  She  came  to  this  house  of  mirth  and  gladness  once 
in  my  experience.      She  didn't  come  again.     The  reli 
gious  dooties  was  too  light.     It  didn't  soot  'er." 


70  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  Is  she  a  very  religious  woman,  then  ? "  inquired 
Richard. 

"Religious?"  repeated  Job.     "There's  a  question." 

"  How  old  is  my  Aunt  Henrietta  ?  When  did  she 
come  here?  How  long  did  she  stop?  What  is  she  like? 
Did  she  talk  to  you  much  ?  " 

Job  stooped  down  to  pick  up  the  shoots  he  had  cut 
off,  put  them  into  his  garden  basket,  and  walked  on 
to  the  next  tree.  He  acted  with  extreme  deliberation 
and  an  unmistakable  air  of  offence.  Richard  selected 
one  from  his  batch  of  questions  and  offered  it  again 
in  the  form  of  an  observation. 

"  I  expect  she  would  like  to  come  out  in  the  garden 
and  talk  to  you."  The  tightness  of  Job's  lips  relaxed, 
and  he  settled  once  more  to  speech. 

"  The  giddiness  of  converse  in  the  house  lyin'  some- 
times heavy  on  her  conscience,  it  is  the  truth  that  she 
did  refresh  herself  occasional  by  sensible  talk  along  o' 
me.  There  is  one  what  ornaments  the  upstairs  floors 
inside  she  might  'a  spoke  with,  but  the  amazement  of  it 
was  she  didn't  take  kindly  to  the  party  alluded  to.  A 
dratted  old  fool  was  the  observation  made  at  the  time, 
or  as  near  as  I  can  get  to  the  language  of  palaces. 
There  must  have  been  a  mistake  somewhere,  for  it  is 
well  beknown  that  the  party  in  question  is  wonderful 
wise  and  bound  straight  for  a  higher  place.  So  she 
do  say  herself,  and  who  should  know  better." 

"  What  did  you  talk  about?  "  asked  Richard,  anxious 
that  the  conversation  should  not  be  shunted  on  to  the 
side  track  of  a  diatribe  against  Sarah,  entertaining 
as  he  knew  that  subject  could  be  made  under  Job's 
manipulation. 

"  Our  converse  was  varied.  It  was  carried  on  with 
a  view  to  improving  ourselves.  I  was  asked  questions. 


RICHES  INNUMERABLE  71 

Anyone  might  think  you  was  fairly  up  to  the  mark  in 
putting  queries.  But,  bless  you,  where  you'd  dig  up  a 
spadeful,  she'd  fill  a  barrow.  Sometimes  I  was  per- 
mitted to  answer  one.  More  gen'ly  I'd  only  got  to 
say  nothink,  and  hear  'er  answerin'  of  'em  'erself.  Oh, 
we  was  wonderful  good  friends.  You  might  'a  thought 
we'd  growed  on  the  same  tree  all  our  lives." 

"  I  expect  she  liked  you,  Job,"  said  Richard,  diplo- 
matically, "  or  she  wouldn't  have  wanted  to  come  and 
talk  to  you  so  much." 

"  Like  me!  I  tell  you,  don't  I?  We  might  'a  bin  a 
couple  of  hob  cherries  growed  on  the  same  stalk.  I 
was  a  character,  she  said.  There's  somethink  it  don't 
fall  to  the  lot  of  every  man  to  be  told  about  'imself. 
And  I  don't  ask  nothing  extra  in  wages  for  it,  neither. 
She  could  stand  for  hours  hearing  me  talk.  So  she 
said,  and  I  dessay  she  could  'ave  if  she'd  ever  come  to 
the  end  of  what  she  'ad  to  say  herself.  But  I  goes  to 
bed  at  half-past  eight  reg'lar,  and  she  seldom  come  out 
before  four  o'clock  in  the  arternoon.  Why,  I  was  to 
give  notice  here,  and  go  and  be  her  head-gardener  where 
she  lives,  at  wages  what  a  lord  might  envy,  and  a  cot- 
tage an'  lights  an'  coals  an'  garden  produce  an'  all, 
same  as  the  fine  gentleman  up  at  the  Manor,  only 
better,  and  my  holding  was  to  be  bought  for  golden 
money,  and  put  in  the  bank.  Bless  you,  we  fixed  it  up 
most  amiable.  She  was  going  to  write  to  me  the  mo- 
ment she  got  back  'ome." 

"And  did  she?"  asked  Richard,  innocently. 

Job  turned  on  him.  "  Now  look  'ere,  Master  Rich- 
ard," he  said  in  quite  a  different  tone.  "  If  you  think 
I  got  nothing  better  to  do  than  to  stand  'ere  with  my 
'ands  in  my  pockets  and  answer  a  pack  of  nonsensical 
questions  aimed  at  me  as  if  I  was  a  Aunt  Sally  at  a 


72  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

fair,  you're  mistook.  Just  you  turn  round  an'  show 
me  the  patch  on  the  back  of  your  breeches,  and  walk 
off  without  no  more  ado." 

There  was  no  patch  on  the  garments  mentioned,  but 
this  was  one  of  Job's  figures  of  speech,  and  Richard 
took  it  without  offence  and  removed  himself  to  another 
part  of  the  garden.  He  had  something  to  think  about. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  hint  of  unreliability  in  his  Aunt 
Henrietta  according  to  Job's  experience  of  her,  and  an 
unpleasant  thought  assailed  him,  that  it  would  be  very 
terrible  if  he  were  to  hear  nothing  more  about  the 
schemes  for  his  welfare  than  he  gathered  Job  had  heard 
about  those  proposed  for  him.  But  the  thought  did 
not  trouble  him  long.  His  father  had  stood  sponsor 
for  her  in  the  matter  and  that  made  it  a  certainty. 

Richard's  appetite  was  now  whetted  by  what  he  had 
heard  from  Job,  for  further  news  about  his  Aunt  Hen- 
rietta. He  lay  in  wait  for  an  amiable  mood  on  the 
part  of  Sarah,  confirmed  it  by  the  small  arts  he  was 
accustomed  to  practise  on  her,  and  led  her  into  a  dis- 
cussion on  the  situation.  She  was  at  her  needlework, 
seated  at  the  table  underneath  the  window  of  the 
nursery,  and  Richard  was  in  a  chair  by  the  fire  with 
a  book  on  his  knee  and  exercising  a  strong  control 
over  himself  not  to  kick  the  high  fender,  a  misde- 
meanour to  which  his  youthful  restlessness  rendered 
him  liable  and  which  on  this  occasion  might  disastrously 
have  stopped  the  flow  of  Sarah's  tongue. 

"  Ah !  "  she  said,  holding  up  her  needle  to  the  light 
and,  after  poking  her  thread  once  or  twice  into  cir- 
cumambient space,  fitting  it  home  through  the  eye, 
"  it's  a  great  thing  is  schooling,  though  it  won't  make 
up  for  a  stony  heart,  and  them  as  are  without  it  can 
partake  of  grace  full  and  free,  thanks  be.  Never  you 


RICHES  INNUMERABLE  73 

forget  that,  Master  Richard,  and  remember  as  a  proud 
look  and  a  high  stomach  is  not  acceptable  and  tempta- 
tions to  such  sent  to  resist." 

This  small  dose  of  powder  having  been  administered 
the  jam  followed  in  the  shape  of  much  interesting  light 
thrown  upon  Aunt  Henrietta's  character  and  appear- 
ance, for  Sarah  was  fond  of  a  gossip  and  when  thor- 
oughly set  only  interrupted  herself  occasionally  to 
bring  her  conversation  into  line  with  her  sense  of  re- 
ligious propriety.  She  also  cleared  up  the  situation 
somewhat  with  regard  to  Richard's  expectations,  of 
which  she  had  given  many  a  previous  hint,  as  has  been 
explained. 

"Pray,  don't  think,"  she  said,  "that  this  is  the 
first  I've  heard  of  the  schooling  and  what's  to  come 
after,  though  my  place  to  acquaint  you  before  you'd 
heard  it  otherwise  it  was  not.  You  must  know  that 
your  aunt  only  came  here  once  when  yer  poor  dear 

mother  was  exp leastways  when  you  was  born. 

Being  rich  beyond  the  dreams  of  average,  the  Christian 
simplicity  of  the  'ome  was  not  what  she'd  bin  accus- 
tomed to,  and  I'm  not  saying  but  what  there  was  some 
words  between  us,  nor  that  I  was  used  to  being  spoke  to 
as  if  I  was  dirt  and  didn't  know  my  duties,  which  albeit 
is  a  thing  known  as  well  as  I  do.  But  we're  told  to 
forgive,  and  forgive  I  have  and  make  excuses  too,  for 
them  as  is  high  in  the  world  has  no  cause  to  hide  their 
feelings  and  opinions  same  as  the  lowly,  and  it  will  all 
be  made  up  by  and  by." 

"  Is  my  aunt  very  high  in  the  world  ? "  asked 
Richard. 

"  Riches  innumerable,"  replied  Sarah,  "  and  horses 
and  carriages  and  building  barns  in  plenty,  but  apt  to 
forget  that  this  night  shall  her  soul  be  required  of 


74  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

thee,  and  neither  chick  nor  child  of  'er  own  to  leave  it  to 
'cept  her  only  sister's  what  she  loved  with  a  love  sur- 
passing the  love  of  women." 

"  My  mother  was  her  only  sister,  wasn't  she?  "  asked 
Richard. 

"  I  heard  myself,"  pursued  Sarah,  without  replying 
directly  to  the  question,  "  the  arrangements  made 
when  she  acquainted  yer  father  with  what  her  inten- 
tions was.  It  was  after  the  funeral — but  there,  I  never 
have  and  never  will  'old  conversation  with  you  about 
those  sorrowful  days,  you  being  a  weak  infant  and  de- 
pendent on  me  for  bringing  up,  which  well  I  knew  what 
was  required  of  me  though  told  otherwise  to  my  face. 
I  had  occasion  to  pass  the  dining-room  door,  and 
though  listening  to  words  not  meant  for  my  ears  is 
what  I'd  never  stoop  to,  being  sensibly  converted  an' 
settin'  loose  to  idle  vanities,  part  of  the  conversation 
obtruded  itself  on  me.  '  Mind,  I  make  myself  respon- 
sible for  the  child,  John,'  she  was  saying.  *  He's  all 
I  have  in  the  next  generation,'  she  says,  *  an'  for  the 
sake  of  'er  who's  gone  he  shall  come  after  me  same  as 
if  he  was  my  own.  You  and  me  knows  each  other  now,' 
she  says — she  was  one  to  speak  her  mind  straight  out — 
*  an'  we're  not  likely  to  get  on  together,  an'  needn't 
see  more  of  one  another  nor  we  can  help.  But  the  boy 
shall  go  to  school  an'  college,'  she  says,  *  and  when  I 
die,  which  I  don't  intend  to,  not  for  many  years  yet ' — 
forgetting  that  immortality  is  not  conferred  along  o' 
this  world's  goods,  but  we  brought  nothing  into  this 
world  and  the  same  we  shall  carry  out — *  when  I  die,' 
she  says,  *  he  shall  inherit  the  earth,'  as  it  might  be. 
Soon  after  that  she  left,  and  took  her  traypsin'  over- 
dressed hussy  of  a  maid,  with  all  the  airs  of  Jezebel 
and  not  much  better  in  character  as  I'll  be  bound, 


RICHES  INNUMERABLE  75 

along  with  her.  The  pleasures  of  the  world  drew  her. 
Our  feet  was  too  firm  set  on  the  heavenly  road  for  her 
to  keep  us  company,  for  them  as  is  blessed  with  riches 
is  apt  to  take  life  light,  not  thinking  but  what  things'll 
be  the  same  to  all  eternity,  instead  of  hell  fire  as  their 
everlasting  portion." 

"  Then  wasn't  she  good? "  asked  Richard1,  inno- 
cently. 

"  Good,"  repeated  Sarah.  "  How  you  do  talk  to  be 
sure!  Who  said  she  wasn't  good?  I  hope  I  know  my 
place  better,  Christian  though  I  be,  to  say  any  such 
thing  of  a  lady  in  her  station.  And  haven't  you  learnt 
by  this  time  that  being  good  won't  save  you  from 
hell  fire?  If  you  haven't  you  had  ought,  that's  all  I 
can  say." 

This  curious  theological  paradox  had  been  dinned 
into  Richard  with  some  insistence,  though  the  way  of 
stating  it  was  Sarah's  own.  "  She  wasn't  saved  then?  " 
he  amended  his  question. 

"  Drat  the  child ! "  exclaimed  Sarah  impatiently. 
"  Haven't  you  heard  me  say  '  Judge  not,  that  ye  be 
not  judged,'  times  without  number?  " 

"  But  you  judge  me,"  retorted  Richard.  "  You 
say  often  enough  that  I  am  not  saved." 

"  No  more  you  ain't,"  replied  Sarah  tartly,  "  and 
won't  be  if  you  go  on  the  way  you're  going  now." 

The  way  he  was  going  seemed  at  any  rate  unlikely 
to  lead  to  further  disclosures  from  Sarah,  and  Richard 
relinquished  the  subject  for  the  present,  but  turned 
over  in  his  mind  what  he  had  heard  as  he  sat  by  the 
fire  with  "  Tom  Brown's  Schooldays  "  on  his  knee,  mix- 
ing up  in  his  dreams  of  the  places  and  characters  dealt 
with  in  those  pages  the  figure  of  his  aunt  and  her  ap- 
parent inconsistencies. 


CHAPTER    VII 

RICHARD  PAYS  A  VISIT 

PARADINE  PARK,  the  seat  of  the  late  Joseph  Mog- 
geridge,  Esq.  (J.P.,  D.L.,  in  his  leisure  hours,  and 
railway  contractor  in  his  more  strenuous  moments), 
and  now  in  the  uncontrolled  possession  of  his  widow, 
was  situated  within  fifteen  miles  of  the  Bank  of  England, 
and  its  lodge  gates  within  three  of  the  town  of  Sandley. 
Sandley,  of  which  Mr.  Moggeridge  had  been  thrice 
mayor  in  his  earlier  days  when  he  was  already  a  rich 
man  but  had  not  yet  attained  the  golden  dreams  of  his 
youth  or  the  delights  of  landed  possessions,  was  so  con- 
veniently placed  with  regard  to  London  that  the  great 
city  had  stretched  out  greedy  tentacles  of  brick  and 
slate  and  pavement  towards  it  and  was  gradually  draw- 
ing it  into  the  ring  of  its  outer  suburbs.  But  Paradine 
Park  itself  was  in  beautiful  and  as  yet  untouched  coun- 
try, and  Mr.  Moggeridge  had  been  able  to  play  the 
landed  proprietor  every  morning  and  evening,  on  Sun- 
days and  sometimes  on  Saturdays,  and,  with  the  loss  of 
only  three  quarters  of  an  hour  spent  in  travelling  twice 
a  day,  carry  on  his  great  business  operations  in  the 
city  of  London  during  the  rest  of  his  time. 

Mr.  Moggeridge  had  been  wont  to  expatiate  on  the 
rural  remoteness  which  he  enjoyed  when  he  had  cast  off 
for  the  day  or  for  the  week  the  cares  of  his  business 
operations,  but  to  Richard  Baldock,  rolling  along  in 
state  in  his  aunt's  barouche  behind  a  pair  of  high  step- 
ping Thays,  with  the  blue  backs  of  a  coachman  and  a 

78 


RICHARD  PAYS  A  VISIT  TT 

footman  high  above  and  in  front  of  him,  the  country 
which  he  was  passing  through  appeared  quite  shame- 
fully sullied  and  unworthy  of  the  name  of  country  at 
all.  There  were  lamp-posts  and  kerbstones,  trim 
hedges  and  villa  walls.  The  din  of  London,  which  he 
had  lately  passed  through  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
still  rang  in  his  ears,  attuned  to  the  great  silences  of 
the  forest,  and  could  by  no  means  be  shaken  off  in 
these  frequented  roads,  smugly  aping  the  ways  of  coun- 
try lanes,  as  the  late  Mr.  Moggeridge,  in  broadcloth 
and  thin-soled  boots,  had  aped  the  ways  of  a  country 
gentleman  after  business  hours. 

Richard  was  now  thirteen  years  of  age.  A  com- 
munication, more  in  the  nature  of  a  peremptory  sum- 
mons than  an  invitation,  had  reached  Beechurst 
Vicarage  two  days  before,  in  consequence  of  which  he 
had  been  sent  off  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  his  aunt 
and  godmother,  who  was  to  do  so  much  for  him  in  the 
future,  but  had  done  so  little  in  the  past  that  he  may 
be  forgiven  for  feeling  no  small  qualms  of  uncertainty 
as  to  his  coming  reception.  Already,  his  unaccustomed 
position  was  breeding  uneasiness,  and,  country-bred 
mouse  as  he  was,  his  thoughts  were  homing  back  to  the 
quiet  amplitude  of  the  forest  which  had  grown  to  be 
part  of  his  life. 

But  after  a  three-mile  drive  along  roads  half  suburb 
and  half  country,  the  carriage  drew  up  at  a  little  rustic 
lodge  standing  among  pines  and  beeches,  and  an  unpre- 
tentious gate  opening  into  a  sandy  road.  The  gate 
was  unlocked  to  admit  it,  and  instantly  the  disturbance 
of  spirit  cast  by  the  shadow  of  town  and  crowd  was 
changed  into  the  contentment  of  nature  in  which  the 
boy  had  been  nurtured.  The  carriage  rolled  between 
high  banks  of  rhododendron  down  into  a  hollow  and  up 


78  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

again,  past  a  pond,  guarded  by  white  posts,  on  which 
an  angry  swan  was  sailing,  protecting  his  lady,  who 
was  hatching  her  eggs  somewhere  out  of  sight  under 
the  bushes.  It  was  springtime,  and  the  larches  were 
showing  tassels  of  vivid  green  against  the  dark  back- 
ground of  pines,  and  here  and  there  an  early  rhododen- 
dron was  a  blaze  of  colour.  They  came  out  by  and  by 
into  the  open,  and  the  horses  trotted  up  a  gentle  rise 
between  undulating  stretches  of  green  sward  where  the 
rabbits  were  feeding.  They  drove  for  nearly  a  mile 
and  at  last  reached  the  top  of  a  hill  crowned  by  a  clump 
of  tall  beeches  towards  which  the  wood-pigeons  were 
swinging  home  to  roost.  The  road  dropped  sharply 
again,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  still  at  some  distance, 
could  be  seen  a  large  plain  house  of  white  stone,  front- 
ing a  broad  gravel  sweep  and  the  grassy  rise  beyond  it. 
On  the  farther  side  of  the  long  line  of  roof  the  hills 
rose  again  in  field  and  woodland,  and  at  their  foot  lay 
the  village,  with  the  red  roof  and  square  tower  of  its 
church  and  groups  of  cottage  chimneys  showing 
among  the  trees.  Mr.  Moggeridge  had  been  justified 
in  his  choice  of  a  country  house.  None  within  such 
easy  reach  of  London  and  business  could  have  been 
more  pleasantly  situated. 

The  carriage  drew  up  in  front  of  the  hall  door,  and 
with  the  assistance  of  the  footman  from  the  box,  a 
butler,  and  another  footman  who  appeared  from  within 
the  house,  Richard  was  extracted  from  the  carriage 
and  introduced  into  a  large  square  hall,  where  he  stood, 
a  small  shy  figure  in  rough  country-made  clothes,  his 
cap  in  his  hand,  wondering  what  in  the  world  he  was 
to  do  next. 

There  appeared  from  one  of  the  many  doors  opening 
out  of  the  hall  another  boy,  a  year  or  so  older  than 


RICHARD, PAYS  A  VISIT  79 

himself  and  a  good  deal  taller.  He  was  a  good-looking 
boy,  dark  as  to  eyes,  hair,  and  skin,  and  carried  him- 
self with  an  easy  self-assurance,  as  if  he  were  quite 
aware  of  his  good  looks  and  rather  expected  them  to 
be  noticed.  He  was  very  well  dressed,  and  altogether 
showed  as  great  a  contrast  to  Richard  in  appearance 
and  manner  as  it  would  have  been  possible  to  find. 

"  Hullo,  Baldock,"  he  said,  coming  forward  to  shake 
hands.  "  I'm  Laurence  Syde.  I'm  staying  here  with 
my  father.  Mrs.  Moggeridge  has  gone  up  to  rest  or 
something.  She  asked  me  to  look  after  you.  Tea's 
ready.  Would  you  like  to  go  and  wash  your  hands  or 
will  you  come  and  have  your  grub  now?  " 

Richard  selected  the  latter  alternative,  and  Lau- 
rence led  him  into  a  large  pleasant  room  facing  the 
gardens  on  the  other  side  of  the  house,  where  a  repast 
that  would  have  been  called  sumptuous  by  a  novelist 
of  the  period — and  not  without  reason — was  spread 
out  on  a  round  table. 

"  Jolly  room,  this,"  said  Laurence.  "  You  and  I 
are  to  have  it  to  ourselves  to  do  what  we  like  in,  and 
we'll  have  some  good  larks  here.  Hullo !  stale  bread 
again !  I'm  not  going  to  stand  it."  He  went  up  to  the 
fireplace  and  rang  the  bell.  "  John  is  the  name  of  the 
fellow  who  is  to  look  after  you  and  me,"  he  said. 
"  Don't  you  stand  any  nonsense  from  him ;  it  never 
does  with  servants — they  get  careless.  Look  here !  " 
(this  to  a  footman  who  had  entered  the  room),  "  what's 
the  meaning  of  this?  I  told  you  I  wouldn't  have  stale 
bread  yesterday.  Take  this  awav  and  bring  another 
loaf." 

"  There's  no  new  bread  in  the  house,  sir,"  said 
John. 

"  Oh,  nonsense !      That's   what  you  said  yesterday. 


80  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

You  just  go  and  find  some,  and  don't  come  back  with- 
out it." 

The  footman  left  the  room  with  the  condemned  loaf 
to  inform  the  cook  that  "  young  me  lord  was  at  his 
antics  again,"  but  to  return  with  a  fresh  loaf  as  new 
and  indigestible  as  could  be  desired.  Laurence  kept  up 
an  easy  flow  of  conversation  as  he  poured  out  tea, 
carved  a  chicken  as  cleverly  as  if  he  had  been  a  surgeon, 
and  played  the  host  with  great  tact  and  assurance. 
Richard,  gradually  coming  into  possession  of  his  scat- 
tered senses,  felt  his  spirits  rising.  This  was  a  delight- 
ful companion;  and  surely  a  house  that  afforded 
promise  of  great  entertainment,  where  everything  was 
conducted  on  such  a  scale  of  luxury  and  profusion. 
The  forest  and  the  shabby  vicarage  began  to  retire  into 
the  background  of  his  consciousness. 

"  There's  a  pony  each  for  us,"  said  Laurence,  "  and 
a  jolly  little  cart.  I  should  have  driven  in  to  meet 
you,  only  the  carriage  was  taking  my  father  to  the 
station,  and  I  thought  we  might  have  the  ponies  for  a 
ride  after  tea.  Can  you  ride,  by  the  bye?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Richard ;  "  I  ride  a  lot  at  home." 

The  older  boy,  leaning  back  easily  in  his  chair,  his 
hospitable  labours  over,  allowed  himself  a  critical  ex- 
amination of  his  companion.  His  eyes  were  cold, 
but  the  affability  of  his  manner  underwent  no 
change. 

"  Got  a  pony?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes ;  I've  got  two,"  answered  Richard. 

Laurence's  eyes  expressed  interest,  perhaps  a  shade 
of  incredulity.  "  How  many  horses  has  your  father 
got  in  his  stable?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  there's  only  one  old  forest  pony,"  said  Richard, 
"  and  she's  generally  turned  out.  And  so  are  mine. 


RICHARD  PAYS  A  VISIT  81 

They're  very  rough,  but  one  of  them  won't  be  bad 
when  I've  finished  breaking  him." 

"Can  you  break  ponies?" 

"  Yes ;  I  do  it  a  good  deal.  That's  how  I  got  these 
two  colts — breaking  ponies  in  for  other  people.  They 
thought  they  weren't  worth  much  and  let  me  have 
them;  but  I  think  one  of  them  won't  be  bad." 

"  We'll  see  how  you  get  on  with  these  here.  One  of 
them's  rather  a  little  devil.  Grant,  the  coachman, 
wanted  me  to  ride  the  other,  but  I  wouldn't  have  it. 
I  took  him  out — his  name's  Ginger — and  gave  him  a 
walloping.  He  nearly  had  me  off  two  or  three  times, 
but  I  managed  to  stick  on;  and  I  tell  you  I  gave  him 
snuff.  Now  I've  shown  him  I'm  his  master  I  don't 
mind  taking  the  other  this  evening,  and  you  can  see 
what  you  can  make  of  him.  Come  on,  let's  go  and 
change.  I  told  them  to  be  ready  at  a  quarter  to  six, 
and  it's  half-past  five  now.  Your  room's  next  to  mine. 
I'll  show  you.  I  expect  John  has  put  out  your  things ; 
if  not,  we'll  ring  and  make  him." 

Laurence  led  the  way  upstairs.  Richard  followed 
him,  at  a  loss  how  to  explain  that  his  only  riding 
clothes  were  those  in  which  he  also  walked  and  sat 
and  pursued  the  various  avocations  of  a  day  which 
began  at  five  or  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  or  even 
earlier,  and  ended  at  about  nine,  without  any  change 
of  costume. 

"  I've  got  a  pair  of  gaiters,"  he  said,  diffidently, 
"  but  I  didn't  bring  them." 

"  What  a  pity !  Didn't  you  bring  any  breeches, 
either?" 

"  No." 

"  I  could  have  lent  you  a  pair  of  gaiters.  I'm 
going  to  wear  boots.  But  you  wouldn't  like  to  wear 


82  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

them  with  trousers ;  they  look  so  beastly.  You'll  have 
to  ride  as  you  are,  and  you  can  send  for  your  things 
to-morrow.  In  fact,  we'll  ride  to  the  post  office  and 
send  a  telegram.  Come  into  my  room  while  I  change." 

Richard  followed  him  into  a  spacious  bedroom  and 
seated  himself  in  a  chair  by  the  window  while  his  new 
friend  completed  an  elaborate  toilet,  which  included 
cord  breeches,  high  boots  of  patent  leather  and  silver- 
plated  spurs,  talking  all  the  time;  while  Richard,  not 
called  upon  to  take  any  very  important  part  in  the 
conversation,  looked  on  with  amazement,  wondering  in 
his  simple  mind  that  such  things  could  be. 

"  Now  I'm  ready,"  said  the  young  dandy  at  last, 
drawing  on  a  pair  of  neat  dogskin  gloves.  "  Come 
on." 

Richard  felt  a  kind  of  shame  such  as  he  had  never 
before  experienced  and  could  not  analyse;  but  some- 
thing warned  him  that  it  was  not  a  feeling  to  be  en- 
couraged. He  mentally  gave  himself  a  little  shake. 

"  Got  your  gloves?  "  inquired  Laurence  as  they  went 
down  the  broad  staircase. 

"  I  haven't  got  any  gloves,"  replied  Richard, 
promptly ;  "  and  it's  no  good  riding  to  a  post  office 
to  telegraph  for  my  riding  clothes,  because  I  haven't 
got  any.  I  don't  mind  what  clothes  I  ride  in." 

The  other  boy  stared  at  him.  Richard  met  his  look, 
and  for  an  instant  they  measured  one  another. 

"  Well,  I  like  to  look  like  a  gentleman,  whatever 
I'm  doing,"  said  Laurence. 

"  I  don't  suppose  it  will  make  much  difference  to 
the  ponies,"  replied  Richard. 

A  chestnut  pony  and  a  black  one  rather  tall  were 
being  led  up  and  down  the  drive  in  front  of  the  hall 
door. 


RICHARD  PAYS  A  VISIT  83 

"  Norah  for  me  to-day,"  said  Laurence  to  the  groom. 
"  This  gentleman  is  going  to  ride  Ginger — if  he  can  " 
(this  under  his  breath).  "You'd  better  take  his  stir- 
rups in  a  couple  of  holes  and  let  mine  out." 

Richard  was  making  friends  with  the  black  pony. 

"  What  a  little  beauty !  "  he  said.  "  I've  never  ridden 
a  pony  like  this  before." 

Laurence's  lip  took  on  the  least  little  curve.  "  You 
can  have  the  chestnut  if  you  like,"  he  said ;  "  she's 
quieter." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Richard.  "  You  said  I  could 
have  this  one." 

"  Oh,  you  can  if  you  like,  but  he'll  probably  kick 
you  off.  He  wouldn't  try  it  on  with  me  again.  I've 
got  the  better  of  him." 

They  mounted  and  rode  off  up  the  hill  on  the  grass, 
Laurence  spurring  his  pony  to  a  wild  gallop  regard- 
less of  rabbit-holes,  Richard  holding  his  in  hand,  not 
without  great  difficulty.  The  groom  looked  after  him 
from  under  his  hand. 

"  That's  a  pretty  way  to  treat  horseflesh,"  he  said  to 
John,  who  was  standing  at  the  door.  "  He's  got  no 
more  idea  of  what  he's  up  to  than  a  circus-rider." 

"  'E  don't  'alf  brag,  neither,  do  'e?  "  said  John,  re- 
lapsing for  the  moment  into  his  native  vernacular. 
"  'E  was  full  up  of  'ow  'e'd  lathered  'is  pony  when  'e 
came  back  yesterday." 

"  It's  either  their  own  neck  or  the  'orse's  spirit  that's 
broke  with  that  sort,"  said  the  groom.  "  'Go's  the 
little  'un?  It  ain't  the  first  time  he's  been  on  a  pony's 
back." 

*c  The  missus's  nephew,"  replied  John.  "  'E'll  come 
after  'er,  so  they  say." 

The  groom  laughed  a  sardonic  laugh,  and  went  back 


84  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

to  the  stable-yard.  "  They're  blamed  clever,"  he  threw 
over  his  shoulder. 

Laurence  pulled  up  his  pony  under  the  beeches  at  the 
top  of  the  rise  and  turned  around.  Richard  was  com- 
ing up  to  him,  leaning  well  back,  trying  with  all  his 
might  to  get  control  over  his  excited  mount. 

"  Why  did  you  go  off  like  that?  "  he  spoke  up  when 
he  had  reached  the  top,  still  hard  at  work  with  his 
fretting  pony.  He  was  a  different  creature  from  the 
shy  boy  of  the  last  half-hour  sitting  silent  under  the 
weight  of  his  companion's  assumptions.  Even  Lau- 
rence's unaccustomed  eye  admitted  his  horsemanship. 

"  Just  to  give  them  a  breather,"  he  said,  half  apolo- 
getically. 

"  A  breather,"  echoed  Richard,  scornfully.  "  I've 
never  seen  anybody  ride  like  that,  except  once  on  the 
sands  at  Brigmouth  on  a  hired  screw." 

Laurence's  face  flushed ;  but  true  to  the  code  of 
boyhood,  he  took  second  place  under  obvious  superior- 
ity, and  learnt  more  as  to  the  proper  handling  of  ponies 
during  the  rest  of  the  evening's  ride  than  he  had  ever 
known  before.  Richard  was  in  his  element.  His  diffi- 
dence had  vanished ;  he  was  leader  for  the  time  being, 
and  held  the  advantage  he  had  gained  quite  naturally. 
"  You  ought  to  ride  very  well,"  he  said,  as  they  were 
nearing  home.  "  You've  got  a  pretty  good  seat,  and 
I  should  think  you  might  have  good  hands  when  you've 
learnt  how  to  use  them." 

Laurence's  spirit  asserted  itself.  "  I've  got  the 
pluck,  anyhow,"  he  said.  "  I  took  on  Ginger  the  first 
day  I  came  here." 

"  Oh,  pluck !  "  said  Richard ;  "  that  was  ignorance." 

When  they  dismounted  before  the  house  their  posi- 
^tions  were  instantly  reversed.  Laurence  strode  into  the 


RICHARD  PAYS  A  VISIT  86 

hall  with  the  air  of  a  cavalry  officer,  and  threw  down 
his  hat  and  gloves  and  hunting  crop  on  to  a  table. 
Richard  followed  him  meekly. 

"  We'll  go  and  see  if  Mrs.  Moggeridge  is  in  the 
morning-room,"  said  Laurence. 

Mrs.  Moggeridge  was  writing  letters  in  a  room  the 
embodiment  of  the  taste  of  the  age,  or,  rather,  of  that 
small  part  of  society  which  had  come  under  the  influ- 
ence of  what  was  known  as  the  aesthetic  movement.  It 
was  the  era  of  lankness  and  yearning,  of  dadoes  and  art 
shades,  of  lilies  and  sunflowers  and  peacocks'  feathers ; 
of  furniture  more  objectionable  .even  than  the  solid  pre- 
tentious ugliness  of  the  mid-Victorian  years;  and  Mrs. 
Moggeridge's  morning-room  reflected  its  ultimate  ex- 
pression. The  cult,  however,  as  far  as  she  was  con- 
cerned, ended  with  her  surroundings  and  stopped  short 
at  the  point  at  which  she  would  have  offered  up  herself 
as  a  sacrifice.  She  was  still  the  plump,  active  woman 
she  had  been  thirteen  years  before — looked,  indeed,  very 
little  older,  and  knew  better  than  to  dress  herself  in 
trailing  garments  of  colours  which  would  not  have 
suited  her  complexion,  or  to  adopt  a  languor  of  deport- 
ment which  was  far  from  representing  her  attitude  of 
mind. 

"  Ah,  so  here  you  both  are,"  she  said  as  the  boys 
entered  the  room.  "  And  you  are  Richard,  my  dear 
little  sister's  boy.  Come  here  and  let  me  look  at  you. 
Yes,  you  are  like  her,  but  not  very  like;  and  I  do  not 
see  much  of  your  father  in  you.  He  and  I  are  not 
very  good  friends,  and  I  cannot  pretend  to  be  sorry. 
Kiss  me.  You  are  a  good-looking  boy ;  but,  good 
gracious,  child,  what  clothes  You  look  like  a  yokel. 
No,  that  is  not  so.  You  look  like  a  gentleman;  but 
gentlemen  should  be  well  dressed.  Look  at  Laurence — 


86  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

really  a  little  beau.  You  must  be  turned  out  in  the 
same  way.  I  will  see  to  it.  You  must  make  yourself 
happy  here.  You  can  have  everything  you  want  to 
amuse  yourself  with ;  you  have  only  to  ask  for  it.  Now 
run  away,  both  of  you.  I  must  finish  these  notes,  and 
then  go  and  dress.  You  will  both  come  in  to  dessert." 

"  We've  got  an  hour  before  we  need  dress,"  said 
Laurence,  when  the  boys  had  retired.  "  Let's  go  and 
have  a  game  of  billiards.  Can  you  play?" 

"  No ;  but  I  should  like  to  learn,  if  you'll  teach  me." 

"  I'll  teach  you ;  but  you'll  have  to  be  careful  not  to 
cut  the  cloth." 

The  magnificent  Laurence  summoned  a  footman  to 
light  the  lamps  and  take  the  cloth  off  the  table,  and 
would  probably  have  kept  him  to  mark  for  them  if  the 
game  had  been  an  ordinary  one.  When  the  first  con- 
centrative  minutes  of  the  lesson  were  over  the  boys 
began  to  talk. 

"  Where  do  you  go  to  school  ?  "  asked  Laurence. 

"  I  haven't  been  to  school  yet.  I'm  going  to  Rugby 
next  year." 

"  I'm  going  to  Eton  next  half.  It's  a  much  better 
place." 

Richard  opened  his  eyes.  "  Better  than  Rugby !  "  he 
exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  of  course ;  everybody  knows  that." 

"Have  you  read  'Tom  Brown's  Schooldays'?" 

"  Yes.  It  isn't  a  bad  book,  and  I  dare  say  it  isn't 
a  bad  place.  But  nobody  would  choose  to  go  there  if 
they  had  a  chance  of  going  to  Eton." 

"  Well,  I  would.  I'd  rather  go  there  than  any  other 
school." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  other  schools  ?  Do  you 
know  any  Eton  fellows  ?  " 


RICHARD  PAYS  A  VISIT  87 

"  No." 

"  Well,  then,  how  can  you  possibly  tell?  I  know  lots. 
My  father  was  there  and  my  grandfather  and  my 
uncles,  and  most  of  the  fellows  at  my  private  school 
go  there.  Eton  is  the  school  for  gentlemen.  The 
others  are  all  much  rougher." 

"  Tom  Brown's  father  was  a  gentleman,  and  old 
Brooke,  oh,  and  all  of  them." 

"  Oh,  yes,  gentlemen  of  a  sort.  But  most  of  the 
really  big  people  go  to  Eton — most  of  the  peers'  sons 
and  that  sort.  It's  much  more  expensive  than  any  other 
school." 

"  I'm  glad  I'm  not  going  there,  then.  I'd  rather  go 
to  a  school  where  they  are  rougher.  And  I  think 
Rugby's  the  first  school  in  England." 

"  It's  no  good  arguing  with  you.  You  don't  know 
anything  about  it.  You  said  so  just  now.  You  talk 
as  if  you'd  never  heard  of  Eton,  and  everybody  knows 
it's  the  first  school  in  England.  Winchester  and  Har- 
row come  next.  Rugby's  a  long  way  behind.  But  I 
don't  want  to  quarrel  about  it.  You  can  think  your 
own  way  if  you  like  till  you  find  out  better.  I  sup- 
pose your  pater  was  there,  wasn't  he?  " 

"  No.  But  my  grandfather  was.  Aunt  Henrietta  is 
going  to  send  me  there  and  to  Oxford  afterwards." 

"  I'm  going  to  Cambridge — just  for  a  year  or  so, 
because  all  my  family  goes  there.  I'm  going  into  the 
Guards,  so  I  shan't  stay  there  long.  But  Oxford's 
all  right.  Lots  of  good  people  go  there.  Who  is  Aunt 
Henrietta?  Mrs.  Moggeridge?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That's  rather  rum.  I  suppose  your  father  isn't 
very  well  off." 

"  No.     He's  a  clergyman." 


88  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  Is  Mrs.  Moggeridge  going  to  leave  you  her 
money  ?  " 

"Yes." 

Poor  little  Richard,  a  young  child  in  years  and  a 
baby  in  knowledge  of  the  world  of  men,  giving  his 
answer  in  all  innocence  and  good  faith,  how  could  he 
tell  the  meanings  it  would  convey  to  the  sophisticated 
young  worldling  who  was  interrogating  him? 

"  Phew !  "  whistled  Laurence.  "  You're  not  going  to 
do  badly  for  yourself.  Are  you  quite  sure?  Is  it 
all  coming  to  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  haven't  thought  about  it. 
But  she's  going  to  send  me  to  Rugby  and  to  Oxford." 

"  Well,  you're  a  lucky  young  dog — if  it's  true.  Come 
on,  we  must  bunk.  It's  time  to  dress." 

Richard  went  upstairs,  rather  unwillingly.  He  sup- 
posed his  Sunday  suit  of  pepper  and  salt  would  meet 
the  requirements  of  the  case,  although  he  was  not  quite 
comfortable  about  it,  remembering  Laurence's  late 
elaborate  toilet.  However,  it  was  the  best  he  could  do, 
and  he  was  somewhat  relieved  to  get  into  his  bedroom 
where  a  bright  fire  was  burning,  in  itself  an  experience, 
to  find  it  laid  out  on  his  bed.  He  went  into  Laurence's 
room  when  he  had  effected  the  change  and  found  that 
young  gentleman  in  the  stage  of  having  his  boots  pulled 
off  by  the  accommodating  John. 

"  You're  surely  not  going  down  like  that,"  said 
Laurence.  "  There  are  a  lot  of  people  dining.  Haven't 
you  got  any  evening  clothes  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Richard,  defiantly.  "  I'm  not  used  to 
such  a  lot  of  dressing  up." 

Laurence  faced  round  on  him.  The  footman  had  just 
left  the  room.  "  Look  here,  young  Baldock,"  he  said. 
"  Just  you  stop  it.  You're  better  than  me  at  horses, 


RICHARD  PAYS  A  VISIT  89 

I  don't  mind  saying.  But  in  everything  else  you're 
just  an  ignorant  young  country  bumpkin.  You've  not 
got  the  least  idea  how  gentlemen  behave  or  dress  or 
what  schools  they  go  to  or  anything  about  them.  If 
you  like  to  go  down  to  dinner  in  a  country  house 
dressed  like  a  ploughboy  in  his  Sunday  suit  it's  your 
own  lookout.  But  it's  a  bit  too  much  to  come  and  crow 
over  me  about  it  as  if  you  were  doing  the  right  thing 
and  I  wasn't." 

"  I'm  not  crowing  over  you,"  replied  Richard.  "  It's 
you  that's  trying  to  crow  over  me  about  clothes  and 
being  rich  and  things  like  that,  which  don't  matter." 

"  Well,  you'll  soon  see  if  they  matter  or  not.  You 
just  take  a  hint,  my  coxy  young  friend,  and  keep  your 
ploughboy  notions  to  yourself,  or  you'll  get  into 
trouble  over  them.  I  should  think  even  at  Rugby 
they  expect  you  to  look  more  like  a  gentleman  than 
you  do." 

Indeed  there  was  some  foundation  for  the  young 
dandy's  strictures.  Richard  was  an  attractive-looking 
boy,  with  fair  curly  hair,  honest  blue  eyes  and  a 
freckled  face,  but  his  ready-made  clothes — an  ill-fitting 
jacket  worn  over  a  low  collar,  knickerbockers  ending 
some  little  way  below  the  knee  and  not  strapped,  a 
flannel  shirt  ill-disguised  at  the  neck  by  a  wisp  of 
black  ribbon,  coarse  black  stockings  and  cheap  patent 
leather  slippers — did  not  show  him  to  advantage.  He 
felt  his  own  deficiencies  as  Laurence  led  the  way  down- 
stairs in  his  neat  Eton  suit  and  broad  white  collar,  and 
was  by  no  means  at  his  ease  as  he  entered  the  dining- 
room,  where  a  dozen  or  more  people,  dressed  as  it 
seemed  to  him  in  every  variety  of  unfamiliar  splendour, 
were  sitting  at  table,  eating  and  drinking,  talking  and 
laughing  all  at  the  same  time.  The  spacious  room, 


90  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

whose  interest  was  centred  in  the  brightly  lit  flower- 
laden  table,  the  servants  moving  quietly  but  busily 
sbout  their  duties,  the  chattering  diners,  commonplace 
as  they  were  to  everyone  present  but  himself,  struck 
Richard  with  wonder  and  deep  shyness.  He  would  al- 
most have  given  up  his  dreams  of  Rugby  to  find  himself 
back  again  in  his  poorly  furnished  nursery  at  home, 
eating  his  supper  of  bread  and  cheese,  with  only  Sarah 
in  her  most  uncompromising  mood  to  bear  him  company. 
But  there  was  no  drawing  back.  He  followed  Lau- 
rence up  the  room. 

Mrs.  Moggeridge  was  sitting  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  resplendent  in  a  dress  of  pink  silk,  bediamonded 
and  otherwise  bedecked.  She  had  on  her  right  an  eld- 
erly man  of  immense  spruceness,  like  enough  in  feature 
to  Laurence  to  enable  Richard  at  one  frightened  glance 
to  recognize  him  as  his  father.  Laurence  was  detained 
at  the  foot  of  the  table  by  a  shrill,  admiring  lady. 
Richard  crept  quaking  to  the  side  of  his  aunt  and 
stood  by  an  empty  chair  till  he  was  ordered  to  occupy  it. 
A  spasm  went  over  Mrs.  Moggeridge's  face  as  she  took 
in  his  appearance  and  bade  him  sit  down,  but  she  said 
nothing  further  for  the  moment. 

"  So  this  is  the  nephew,  is  it?  "  remarked  her  neigh- 
bour, pleasantly.  "  Dug  out  of  the  forest  wilds,  eh?" 
His  keen  eye,  surrounded  by  innumerable  crow's-feet, 
seemed  to  take  in  everything,  and  made  Richard,  sen- 
sitized by  Laurence's  diatribe,  wince. 

"  What  an  oversight !  "  said  Mrs.  Moggeridge,  her 
head  turned  from  him,  but  her  words  quite  plainly 
heard.  "  I  might  have  known  he  would  be  sent  to  me 
like  this.  It  is  deplorable.  I  ought  to  have  seen  to  it.'* 
Then  to  Richard,  under  her  breath,  "  You  must  not 
come  into  the  drawing-room  to-night.  Slip  off  quietly 


RICHARD  PAYS  A  VISIT  91 

when  the  ladies  leave  the  room.  You  shall  have  some 
proper  clothes  to-morrow." 

No  one  took  any  further  notice  of  him.  His  left- 
hand  neighbour,  after  a  glance  of  surprise,  devoted  him- 
self to  his  fruit  and  claret.  He  was  a  heavy  man,  with 
a  massive  jowl  and  black  side  whiskers,  and  seemed  to 
be  of  opinion  that  the  dinner  table  was  a  place  for  eat- 
ing and  drinking,  for  the  tide  of  talk  and  laughter 
flowed  past  him  and  left  him  unmoved,  placidly  munch- 
ing. Mrs.  Moggeridge  sparkled  and  effervesced  with  a 
decisive  brilliance.  The  grey-haired,  military-looking 
man  on  her  right  paid  easy  court  to  her.  Richard,  his 
soul  blank  and  sore  within  him,  yet  observant,  felt  a  dis- 
like to  him,  although  he  admitted  to  himself  that  he  was 
the  finest-looking  man  present  and  a  contrast  to  the 
others  round  the  table,  who  were  mostly  of  the  large 
and  prosperous  mercantile  variety.  Laurence,  farther 
down  the  table,  was  holding  his  own  with  self-assurance, 
taking  as  large  a  part  in  the  conversation  that  went  on 
around  him  as  anybody.  Richard  felt  more  out  of  his 
element  than  he  had  ever  done  in  his  life  before,  and 
unaccountably  unhappy,  as  he  sat  silent,  nibbling  at 
his  supply  of  almonds  and  raisins,  which  he  had  selected 
from  among  the  fruits  offered  to  him  as  presenting 
fewest  problems  in  the  manner  of  consumption. 

By  and  by  Mrs.  Moggeridge  gave  the  signal  to  retire. 
Richard,  obedient  to  command,  slipped  out  in  her  wake. 
Laurence  was  holding  the  door,  posing  for  notice,  which 
was  given  him  in  unstinted  measure.  His  glance  rested 
triumphantly  on  Richard  as  he  crept  past  him,  but  he 
made  no  remark,  shutting  the  door  and  going  back  to 
his  place  at  table  and  his  unfinished  glass  of  wine. 

The  surge  of  skirts  swept  across  the  hall  to  the 
drawing-room.  Richard  detached  himself  from  it  with- 


92  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

out  notice  and  made  his  way  upstairs  to  his  bedroom. 
It  was  already  half-past  nine  and  past  his  usual  bed- 
time. He  drew  back  the  heavy  curtains  of  his  window, 
pulled  up  the  blind,  and  opened  the  window. 

There  was  a  bright  moon.  The  cedar-bordered  lawn 
and  the  parklike  sloping  meadow  beyond  the  low  wall 
which  bounded  it  were  in  silver.  The  air  was  quite  still, 
and  from  the  dark  wood  to  the  left  of  the  house  the  voice 
of  a  nightingale  came  trilling.  The  boy  was  very  un- 
happy. The  life  around  him  was  something  entirely 
outside  his  range  of  experience,  and  he  had  had  his 
first  lesson  in  hitherto  unimagined  social  conditions. 
He  felt  himself  shorn  of  respect,  standing  lower  in  the 
world  than  he  had  known,  and  although  he  rebelled 
against  a  judgment  which  condemned  him  for  imma- 
terial deficiencies  it  hurt  him  none  the  less.  He  longed 
desperately  for  the  familiarities  of  the  home  which  he 
felt  he  had  valued  too  little,  and  laid  his  head  on  the 
window-sill  and  cried  from  home-sickness. 

But  presently  the  stillness  and  beauty  of  the  night 
and  the  quiet  country  soothed  him.  He  braced  up  his 
mind,  left  the  window,  undressed  himself,  said  his 
prayers  and  got  into  bed,  where  he  fell  asleep  instantly 
and  did  not  awake  when  Laurence  came  into  his  room 
an  hour  later  and  held  a  candle  to  his  face. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

AT  PARADINE  PARK 

MR.  Buss,  who  condescended  to  reside  in  Mrs.  Mog- 
geridge's  house  under  the  style  of  butler,  but  really 
fulfilled  the  duties  of  steward  and  confidential  adviser, 
had  spent  his  former  years  in  the  service  of  so  exalted 
a  society  that  his  frequent  boast  that  he  knew  what  was 
what  as  well  as  any  man  living  was  no  more  than  justi- 
fied. Having  been  taken  into  consultation  with  his  mis- 
tress before  she  retired  to  rest,  he  appeared  at  Rich- 
ard's bedside  early  the  next  morning  and  informed  him 
that  he  was  to  accompany  him  to  London  for  the  pur- 
pose of  procuring  a  complete  new  outfit,  and  that  his 
breakfast  would  be  ready  in  half  an  hour,  immediately 
after  which  they  would  start. 

Richard  jumped  out  of  bed  with  alacrity.  He  had 
already  been  awake  for  over  an  hour,  but  had  not  been 
able  to  dress  himself  and  go  out  because  he  had  not  liked 
to  put  on  his  offending  Sunday  suit  again  and  his  only 
other  one  had  disappeared.  It  now  came  in  neatly 
folded  in  the  hands  of  John,  together  with  a  can  of  hot 
water,  and  he  dressed  himself  quickly.  He  had  slept  off 
his  misery  of  the  night  before,  and  felt  exhilarated  at 
the  idea  of  the  new  life  he  was  about  to  explore  further. 
A  day  in  London  with  Mr.  Bliss  commended  itself  to 
him  as  a  pleasant  interlude,  for  the  butler,  although 
pompous  and  unapproachable  in  his  professional  capa- 
city, seemed  to  promise  well  as  a  companion.  He  had 
appeared  in  a  light  suit  of  a  gentlemanly  cut,  and 

93 


94  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

there  was  a  hint  of  jauntiness  about  him  which  struck 
Richard  as  an  agreeable  trait  in  his  character.  They 
set  off  in  a  light  spring  cart,  driven  by  the  head  coach- 
man himself,  all  three  sitting  together,  Richard  in  the 
middle,  and  beguiled  the  three-mile  drive  by  propound- 
ing riddles  to  one  another,  in  which  exercise  Richard 
shone,  and  by  a  discussion  of  the  political  situation,  to 
which  he  listened  with  respect,  inclining  rather  to  the 
Conservative  views  of  the  coachman  than  to  those  of 
Mr.  Bliss,  which  were  of  an  unexpectedly  Radical 
tendency. 

In  the  train  Mr.  Bliss  came  out  still  further.  They 
travelled  in  a  third-class  carriage  full  of  clerks  and 
others  going  to  their  work  in  the  city,  and  the  butler, 
now  free  from  all  trace  of  servitude,  his  butlerdom  hav- 
ing slipped  from  him  so  completely  as  to  have  made  it 
impossible  for  anyone  to  guess  his  calling  in  life, 
started  a  general  conversation,  and  succeeded  so  well  in 
drawing  everyone  into  it  that  the  time  passed  most 
pleasantly.  He  was  so  evidently  considered  a  man  of 
standing,  with  opinions  worth  listening  to  and  no  non- 
sense about  him,  that  Richard  was  quite  proud  of  his 
companion,  and  did  not  feel  in  the  least  ashamed  when  a 
fellow  passenger  alluded  to  him  as  his  father,  although 
he  corrected  the  mistake.  Mr.  Bliss  wound  up  the  jour- 
ney by  exhibiting  a  few  simple  conjuring  tricks,  with 
the  help  of  some  coppers,  a  handkerchief  and  a  bor- 
rowed silk  hat,  and  stated  that  if  any  of  the  company 
could  have  produced  a  pack  of  cards  he  would  have 
surprised  them. 

The  morning  was  spent  in  the  region  of  Oxford 
Street,  and  in  the  course  of  an  hour  or  so  Richard  be- 
came possessed  of  a  larger  supply  of  clothes  than  he 
had  previously  owned  during  the  course  of  his  life, 


AT  PARADINE  PARK  95 

"  I  should  have  took  you  to  Bond  Street  and  there- 
abouts," said  Mr.  Bliss,  "  if  the  occasion  hadn't  been 
so  pressing.  But  fortunately  you're  stock  size — 
medium  boy's — so  it  don't  so  much  signify.  You'll  be 
a  match  for  young  Master  Syde  now,  and  don't  you 
give  in  to  him." 

Luncheon  at  Frascati's  was  marked  by  the  consump- 
tion of  three  ices  on  the  part  of  Richard,  and  dressed 
crab  on  that  of  Mr.  Bliss,  after  which  they  visited 
Madame  Tussaud's,  and  paid  a  flying  visit  to  the  Zoo- 
logical Gardens,  reaching  home  about  seven  o'clock  after 
a  thoroughly  satisfactory  and  enjoyable  day.  They 
were  driven  from  the  station  in  the  spring  cart  as  before, 
but  not  by  the  coachman.  Mr.  Bliss  was  as  chatty  and 
entertaining  as  ever  during  the  first  part  of  the  drive, 
but  became  less  so  after  they  had  passed  the  lodge 
gates.  By  the  time  they  had  reached  the  house  his 
features  had  assumed  a  cast  of  respectable  hauteur, 
and  when  he  helped  Richard  to  alight  at  the  front  door 
he  addressed  him  as  "  sir." 

Upon  entering  the  house  Richard  was  summoned  into 
the  presence  of  his  aunt.  He  was  wearing  a  new  Eton 
suit  which  he  had  exchanged  for  his  old  one.  "  Ah !  " 
said  Mrs.  Moggeridge.  "  Now  you  look  like  a  little 
gentleman,  and  I  shall  not  be  ashamed  of  you  any 
longer." 

Richard  hung  his  head.  "  It  is  very  kind  of  you, 
Aunt  Henrietta,  to  give  me  all  these  clothes,"  he  said. 
"  I  am  sorry  I  hadn't  proper  things  when  I  came,  but 
I  couldn't  help  it." 

"Bless  the  child,"  said  Mrs.  Moggeridge.  "  Of  course 
you  couldn't  help  it.  Come  and  give  me  a  kiss.  And 
you  needn't  thank  me  for  anything  I  do  for  you.  You 
are  my  only  living  relation.  I  will  do  more  for  you 


96  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

yet,  if  you  are  a  good  boy  and  I  am  pleased  with  you. 
But  I  think  you  are  a  good  boy,  and  I  am  sure  a  very 
nice  one,  though  there  are  things — But  it  is  not  your 
fault,  and  we  needn't  go  into  them.  You  must  enjoy 
yourself  as  much  as  possible  during  your  visit  here.  I 
asked  Laurence  on  purpose  to  keep  you  company,  and 
to  teach  you  how  to  behave,  and  so  on.  For  he  is  a  very 
well-behaved  boy,  as  he  ought  to  be,  for  he  comes  of  a 
very  aristocratic  family.  His  grandfather  was  the  Earl 
of  Wrotham  and  his  father,  whom  you  have  seen,  is 
Major-General  the  Honourable  Sir  Franklin  Syde, 
K.C.B.,  a  most  distinguished  soldier  and  a  man  of  per- 
fect breeding.  And  his  mother,  who  died  some  years 
ago,  was  Lady  Anne  Syde,  a  daughter  of  the  Earl  of 
Shaston.  So,  you  see,  you  have  a  playmate  whom 
any  boy  might  be  proud  of.  Living  as  you  do  in  a 
small  country  village  you  hardly  know  what  is  expected 
of  boys  of  high  position,  and  I  wish  you  to  learn  that. 
It  is  quite  possible  that  you  may  hold  a  high  position 
yourself  some  day,  though  I  do  not  say  that  it  will  be 
so." 

The  occasion  seemed  to  Richard  to  warrant  allusion 
to  the  subject  of  his  dreams.  "  I'll  learn  everything 
you  want  me  to,  Aunt  Henrietta,"  he  said.  "  I  want  to 
do  well  when  I  go  to  Rugby.  I  am  looking  forward  to 
it  so  much." 

"  My  dear  father  and  your  mother's  was  at  Rugby," 
said  Mrs.  Moggeridge.  "  Was  that  your  father's 
school?  " 

"  No.     I  don't  think  so." 

"  Well,  I  think  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing  for 
you  to  go  there.  I  will  write  to  Mr.  Baldock  about  it. 
Though  if  he  has  settled  the  question,  perhaps — How- 
ever !  Now  I  must  go  and  dress  for  dinner,  and  you  and 


AT  PARADINE  PARK  97 

Laurence  are  to  dine  with  us  to-night.  Bliss  will  tell 
you  what  to  wear.  You  had  better  go  and  dress  now. 
And  remember  you  are  to  have  a  happy  time  here. 
Anything  you  want  for  your  pleasure — you  and  Lau- 
rence— you  have  only  got  to  ask  for." 

Richard  expressed  his  thanks,  and  left  the  room  with 
a  vague  feeling  of  dissatisfaction  troubling  him.  Could 
it  be  possible  that  his  father  had  made  a  mistake?  Cer- 
tainly his  aunt  had  not  spoken  of  his  going  to  Rugby 
as  if  it  had  been  her  own  wish  and  plan.  But  here  Lau- 
rence, coming  through  the  hall  in  his  riding  clothes,  met 
him,  and  the  further  consideration  of  a  disturbing  idea 
was  postponed. 

"  Hullo!"  said  Laurence.  "  Had  a  jolly  time?  I've 
been  riding  with  father."  He  spoke  perfunctorily,  and 
without  his  usual  vivacity.  His  face  was  grave,  and  he 
eyed  Richard  somewhat  askance. 

Sir  Franklin  Syde  came  into  the  hall.  He  was  very 
smartly  dressed,  and  his  spare  figure  and  upright  car- 
riage gave  him  the  appearance  of  a  young  man,  in  spite 
of  his  white  hair  and  tired  blue  eyes.  "  Well,  my  young 
cave-dweller,"  he  said,  "  been  to  get  a  new  suit  of  skins, 
eh?  I  hear  you've  been  showing  Laurence  what  you 
can  do  on  horseback.  You  and  I  will  ride  together  and 
have  a  talk  about  your  forest.  I've  hunted  there  and 
enjoyed  it.  Now  we  must  go  and  make  ourselves 
tidy."  He  spoke  kindly  and  with  courtesy,  and  Richard 
felt  an  impulse  of  admiration  and  gratitude  towards 
him.  Laurence's  face  cleared.  The  two  boys  went  up- 
stairs together.  "  He's  a  fine  man,  my  father,  isn't 
he?  "  said  Laurence.  "  He  can  do  anything  he  likes, 
and  he's  seen  lots  of  service  and  been  wounded.  He's  a 
splendid  soldier,  or  has  been,  for  he's  retired  now." 

"  And  he's  kind  to  boys,"  added  Richard. 


98  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  He  doesn't  treat  me  like  a  boy,"  said  Laurence. 
"  He  tells  me  things.  He  says  he  wants  me  to  be  a  man 
of  the  world.  I  don't  suppose  many  fathers  would 
consult  their  sons  about  things  as  he  does  me.  Does 
your  father  tell  you  his  plans  and  ask  your  advice 
about  them?" 

"  No,"  said  Richard. 

"  Ah,  well — I'll  do  all  I  can  to  help  him — and  for 
my  own  sake,  too."  He  gave  a  little  laugh,  not  alto- 
gether agreeable,  as  he  went  into  his  room. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Mrs.  Moggeridge  at  dinner  that 
evening,  "  that  I  lead  a  very  dull  life.  I  am  an  ener- 
getic woman,  and  what  I  find  to  do  I  do  with  all  my 
might.  But  I  find  so  little  to  do  that  interests  me.  I 
wish  it  were  otherwise." 

"  My  complaint  is  a  very  different  one,"  said  Sir 
Franklin.  "  There  are  a  thousand  and  one  things  that 
interest  and  amuse  me,  but  they  all  cost  such  a  con- 
founded lot  of  money  that  I  am  able  to  do  less  and  less 
of  them  every  year.  Very  soon  I  shall  be  able  to 
afford  to  do  nothing  at  all,  and  then  I  suppose  I  shall 
die  from  inanition." 

"  But  what  are  the  things  to  do?  "  asked  Mrs.  Mog- 
geridge. "  I  have  got  plenty  of  money.  I  say  it  in  no 
boastful  spirit — in  fact,  I  do  not  see  that  it  is  a  thing 
to  boast  about  at  all,  for  I  did  not  make  it  myself— 
and  everybody  knows  it.  I  could  do  anything  I  wished. 
I  have  redecorated  and  refurnished  this  house  from 
top  to  bottom  lately,  and  that  gave  me  great  pleasure. 
It  cost  a  great  deal  of  money,  and  I  think  you  will  agree, 
Sir  Franklin,  that  the  general  effect  is  good." 

Sir  Franklin  bowed  politely. 

"  Well,  as  I  say,  that  gave  me  great  pleasure.  And 
I  am  very  sorry  that  the  work  is  over.  I  don't  enjoy 


AT  PARADINE  PARK  99 

living  here  half  as  much  as  I  enjoyed  making  the  house 
beautiful  and  comfortable  to  live  in.  But  what  is  to 
be  done  next?  The  house  takes  some  looking  after, 
and  I  like  doing  that,  but  there  is  nothing  outside,  only 
one  farm,  and  it  does  not  give  me  enough  scope." 

"  How  different  again  from  my  situation ! "  said  Sir 
Franklin.  "  There  is  my  fine  old  house  in  Yorkshire 
almost  tumbling  down  because  I  can't  afford  to  put  it  in 
order,  and  nobody  will  take  it  in  its  present  condition 
and  do  it  for  me ;  and  ten  thousand  acres  of  good  land 
badly  farmed  because  I  can't  spend  money  on  them." 

"  I  wish  it  were  mine,"  said  Mrs.  Moggeridge. 
"  Then  I  am  fond  of  society.  But  what  there  is  h«re  is 
dull,  I  must  confess  it.  It  suited  my  husband,  but  I 
cannot  say  that  it  suits  me." 

"  My  dear  lady !  "  exclaimed  Sir  Franklin.  "  You 
are  within  a  few  miles  of  London  and  the  best  society 
in  the  world." 

"  But  I  don't  know  the  right  sort  of  people,"  said 
Mrs.  Moggeridge.  "  I  am  perfectly  frank  about  it.  I 
see  no  reason  to  be  anything  else.  I  am  ambitious 
and  it  would  give  me  great  pleasure  to  be  a  somebody. 
But  I  am  not  a  somebody.  My  father  was  a  poor 
clergyman,  and  my  husband  was  a  selfmade  business 
man.  I  am  very  rich,  and  that  is  all." 

"  But  what  an  all !  "  said  Sir  Franklin.  "  My  dear 
lady,  you  don't  know  your  power.  You  should  not  be 
content  to  live  quietly  here.  You  have  the  world  at 
your  feet.  Why  not  make  it  give  you  everything  you 
want?" 

"  But  what  do  I  want  ?  Now  tell  me,  Sir  Franklin, 
what  would  you  do  if  you  were  in  my  case?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Sir  Franklin.  A  slight  flush 
came  over  his  cheekbones,  and  a  slight  glitter  into  his 


100  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

eyes.  "  But  you  must  let  me  imagine  myself  still  as  I 
am.  I  could  not  consent  to  change  personalities,  even 
where  the  exchange  would  be  so  much  to  my  advantage." 
He  bowed  gracefully  towards  his  hostess.  "  I  should 
first  of  all  make  my  beautiful  but  dilapidated  house  one 
of  the  most  perfect  in  England.  That  would  take  both 
time  and  money,  and  both  would  be  most  delightfully 
employed.  The  house  is  historic,  and  would  repay  the 
outlay  as  well  as  any  in  the  country." 

*'  That  would  certainly  be  a  delightful  undertaking," 
said  Mrs.  Moggeridge,  "  but  when  it  was  over?  " 

"  There  would  be  the  estate.  Farms  to  put  into 
order,  buildings  to  repair,  tenants  to  find.  The  outlay 
would  be  remunerative.  At  present  things  go  on  any- 
how. There  can  be  no  outgoings,  and  consequently  in- 
comings have  reduced  themselves  to  vanishing  point. 
Then  there  is  the  shooting.  That  is  let  now,  but  I 
should  take  it  back  into  my  own  hands.  There  is  a 
moor,  and  some  excellent  coverts.  In  my  uncle's  time 
it  was  renowned,  and  would  be  again." 

"  A  great  deal  to  do,"  said  Mrs.  Moggeridge,  "  but 
it  would  all  come  to  an  end  in  time." 

"  One's  enjoyment  of  it  would  never  come  to  an  end. 
One  would  fill  the  old  place  with  pleasant  people.  The 
shooting  would  attract  anybody,  and  the  hunting  is 
not  bad.  Besides,  I  should  revive  my  modest  stud.  I 
used  to  train  horses  there  in  the  old  days.  But  that 
is  long  since  over.  The  stables  have  been  empty  these 
twenty  years.  And  I  should  not  live  there  all  the 
year  round.  I  should  exchange  my  modest  chambers 
in  the  Albany  for  a  good  house  where  I  could  see  my 
friends.  I  own  I  am  fond  of  good  cooking  and  good 
wine.  Pardon  the  confession  of  an  old  man's  self- 
indulgence.  I  should  not  mention  such  a  thing  to  you, 


AT  PARADINE  PARK  101 

if  you  did  not  treat  me  so  much  en  prince  in  this  respect 
yourself.  And,  indeed,  there  is  no  lady  I  have  ever 
met  whose  cook  and  whose  cellars  are  so  irreproach- 
able." 

"  I  take  pains  over  both,"  admitted  Mrs.  Moggeridge. 
"  I  like  to  set  the  best  before  my  friends." 

"  Our  tastes  are  one  in  that  matter,  as  in  many 
others.  I  am  fond  of  music  and  should  have  a  box  at 
the  opera.  I  should  have  a  yacht.  In  fact,  I  should 
have  everything  that  could  make  the  remainder  of  my 
years  happy  and  free  from  care.  I  have  no  doubt  my 
ambitions  may  be  called  selfish.  I  admit  it.  But  I 
have  finished  my  work.  I  am  an  old  useless  fellow,  re- 
tired from  the  serious  business  of  life,  and  if  good 
fortune  were  ever  to  come  my  way  again  I  should 
take  it  frankly  as  a  means  of  providing  myself  with 
amusement — amusement  which  I  should  take  very  good 
care  others  should  join  in  as  well  as  myself." 

"I  think  you  are  quite  right,"  said  Mrs.  Mog- 
geridge. "  The  people  we  all  of  us  like  are  the  people 
who  enjoy  things  themselves  and  give  enjoyment  to 
others.  Your  sour-faced  philanthropist  may  gain 
some  satisfaction  from  regarding  his  own  virtue,  but  I 
doubt  whether  he  much  increases  the  happiness  of  the 
world,  and  I  am  sure  he  loses  a  lot  himself.  And  what 
would  you  do,  Laurence,  if  you  had  command  of  a 
great  deal  of  money?  " 

"  I  should  do  all  the  things  that  father  does,"  re- 
plied Laurence,  promptly.  "  Lots  of  horses  and  lots 
of  friends.  That's  my  idea  of  pleasure." 

"  Very  well  put,  my  boy,"  said  Sir  Franklin,  ap- 
provingly. "  But  pleasure  isn't  everything,  you  know. 
You  would  serve  your  Queen  and  country  first,  as  I 
have  done  in  my  humble  way.  I've  done  my  work.  I'm 


RICHARD  BALDOCK 

like  the  boy  going  home  for  his  holidays.  He  has  a 
right  to  think  of  his  play.  You  are  like  the  boy  begin- 
ning the  half.  He  may  play  and  enjoy  his  play,  but 
his  work  must  come  first." 

"  Yes,  that's  all  right,  father,"  said  Laurence.  "  But 
you  get  four  months'  leave  a  year  in  the  Guards." 

Sir  Franklin  turned  to  Richard,  who  had  been  listen- 
ing to  this  conversation  with  considerable  wonder- 
ment. "  And  what  are  you  going  to  do,  young  man, 
when  you  come  into  your  fortune?"  he  inquired 
kindly. 

Richard  blushed  and  stammered.  "  I  don't  know," 
he  said.  "  I — I — shall  buy  some  ponies  and — and  some 
books." 

"  Good  lad  !  "  said  Sir  Franklin.  "  Your  tastes  are 
modest.  Mine  and  Laurence's  I  fear  are  not.  And 
that  is  always  the  way.  The  people  who  have  the  ex- 
pensive tastes  have  not  the  money  to  gratify  them. 
The  people  with  the  money  are  generally  without  the 
tastes.  My  dear  lady,  I  congratulate  you.  There  are 
no  spendthrift  tendencies  here.  I  fear  I  can  hardly 
say  the  same  for  my  successor,  but  perhaps  Master 
Laurence  has  not  been  brought  up  in  the  best  of  schools 
for  the  purpose  of  that  lesson." 

"  You  are  taking  too  much  for  granted,  Sir  Frank- 
lin," said  Mrs.  Moggeridge.  "  I  do  not  know  whether 
others  do  the  same."  She  glanced  aside  with  a  hint  of 
disfavour  at  Richard,  who  was  peeling  an  orange  in  all 
innocence.  "  At  any  rate,  there  is  no  occasion  to  con- 
sider such  questions  yet  awhile." 

"  May  it  be  many  years  before  it  becomes  necessary," 
said  Sir  Franklin,  with  a  bow.  "  To  me,  an  old  man 
with  a  young  mind,  they  are  bound  to  occur,  but  they 
occur  painfully.  There  is  no  reason  why  they  should 


AT  PARADINE  PARK  103 

occur  at  all  in  your  case.  Forgive  me  for  raising 
them." 

After  dinner  Sir  Franklin  suggested  that  Mrs.  Mog- 
geridge  should  hear  Laurence  sing.  Laurence  brought 
a  sheaf  of  music  and  she  played  accompaniments.  He 
had  a  true  and  fresh  boy's  voice,  and  sang  delightfully. 
Mrs.  Moggeridge  was  enchanted  and  could  not  have 
enough.  "  I  wish  you  could  sing  like  that,  Richard,"  she 
said,  when  the  concert  was  at  last  over. 

"  I  should  like  to  be  able  to,"  replied  Richard,  who 
had  not  been  given  an  opportunity  of  showing  whether 
he  could  or  not. 

"  We  must  give  the  rival  songster  a  trial  another 
time,"  said  Sir  Franklin.  "  Now  I  will  say  good  night, 
and  go  and  smoke  my  cigar.  Laurence,  you  may  come 
and  talk  to  me  for  half  an  hour,  and  then  you  must  go 
to  bed." 

The  next  day  was  wet.  Sir  Franklin  went  up  to 
town  by  an  early  train  and  returned  in  time  for  din- 
ner. Mrs.  Moggeridge  kept  to  her  own  rooms  until 
luncheon  time,  and  the  boys  were  thrown  on  their  own 
resources.  Richard  wanted  to  read,  but  Laurence  sug- 
gested billiards,  and  he  gave  in. 

"  Now  I'll  give  you  forty  in  a  hundred,  and  play  you 
for  a  shilling,"  said  Laurence. 

Richard  looked  rather  shocked.  "  I  don't  want  to 
play  for  money,"  he  said. 

"  Money !  "  echoed  Laurence.  "  You  talk  as  if  we 
were  going  to  play  for  a  fiver.  Father  and  I  always 
play  for  a  shilling  and  he  takes  it  if  I  lose.  He  says 
it  makes  me  a  better  sportsman  if  I  pay  up.  You 
don't  think  it's  wrong,  do  you?" 

"  I  dare  say  not,"  said  Richard,  "  if  your  father 
lets  you  do  it.  But  mine  wouldn't  like  me  to." 


104.  UlCHARt)  BALDOCK 

"  Well,  all  right.  I  don't  care.  Come  on,  string  for 
break.  I  say,  what  sort  of  a  man's  your  father?  " 

"  He's  very  clever,"  said  Richard.  "  He  writes 
things  in  papers  and  magazines,  and  he's  a  fine  scholar." 

"Rather  religious,  ain't  he?" 

"  Well,  he's  a  clergyman." 

"  And  I  suppose  they've  got  to  be.  But  Mrs.  Mog- 
geridge  told  me  that  he  was — well — a  terror.  She  said 
she  was  going  to  give  you  a  good  time  here  because  you 
had  such  a  bad  time  at  home." 

"  I  don't  have  a  bad  time  at  all.  And  Aunt  Henri- 
etta oughtn't  to  say  such  things  about  my  father. 
I've  never  heard  him  say  anything  against  her." 

"Well,  why  should  he?  There's  nothing  to  say. 
That's  a  good  cannon.  Mark  me  two  up.  Especially 
when  she's  going  to  leave  you  all  her  money." 

"  I  don't  know  that  she  is." 

"  Well7  you  said  she  was  when  I  asked  you  before." 

"  People  have  told  me  so  at  home,  but  I  never  thought 
much  about  it.  Father  has  never  said  so.  He  only 
told  me  that  she  was  going  to  send  me  to  Rugby  and 
Oxford." 

"  I  wish  she'd  send  me  to  Eton  and  Cambridge." 

"  Why,  you  said  you  were  going  there,   anyhow." 

"  Well,  so  I  was.  But  my  father  said  yesterday 
that  he  was  afraid  he  couldn't  afford  it  as  things  are  at 
present.  I  must  say  it  was  a  bit  of  a  jar,  but  he  was 
so  awfully  nice  about  it  that  it  didn't  seem  so  bad  when 
he  told  me.  He  said  he  should  feel  it  more  than  I  should 
if  it  couldn't  be  managed.  Still,  of  course,  I've  got 
relations  who  might  help.  But  my  father  says  they've 
paid  up  such  a  lot  for  him  that  he  doesn't  think  they 
will." 

"  I'm  very  sorry,"  said  Richard.     "  I  was  very  sorry 


AT  PARADINE  PARK  105 

last  night  when  your  father  said  he  couldn't  afford  to 
live  in  his  beautiful  house  and  do  what  he  wanted.  I 
think  the  nation  ought  to  give  him  some  money.  He's 
been  a  brave  soldier." 

"  Oh,  he's  got  his  pension,  and  it  isn't  a  bad  one, 
only  I  expect  he's  anticipated  a  good  deal  of  it." 

"  What's  that?  " 

"  Why,  run  into  debt  over  it.  You  don't  know  much 
about  money  affairs,  or  what  smart,  popular  men  like 
my  father  do.  His  uncle  left  him  a  fine  property  and 
he  ran  through  it  when  he  was  a  subaltern.  He  lived 
at  a  tremendous  pace,  and  kept  lots  of  racehorses.  He 
nearly  won  the  Derby  once,  and  you  can't  go  in  for 
that  on  nothing.  Then  he  married  and  got  another 
start,  for  my  mother  had  some  money,  but  that  soon 
went  too.  Of  course,  there's  the  place  in  Yorkshire. 
But  it  doesn't  bring  in  anything  now,  and  it's  heavily 
mortgaged.  I  shall  have  it  when  he  dies,  but  it  won't 
be  much  good  to  me." 

"  Have  you  ever  lived  there  ?  " 

"  Not  since  I  can  remember.  It's  been  shut  up  for 
years.  But  it's  a  jolly  place,  I  can  tell  you.  This  is 
nothing  to  it.  I  go  about  to  different  relations  in  the 
holidays,  and  sometimes  my  father  has  me  for  a  few 
days  in  his  chambers.  I  enjoy  that,  for  he  takes  me  to 
see  all  sorts  of  things  and  people.  There  aren't  many 
fathers,  I  can  tell  you,  who  take  such  trouble  about 
their  sons'  education  as  he  does." 

"  Do  you  go  to  the  British  Museum?  " 

"  British  Museum !  Fancy  my  father  at  the  British 
Museum !  I  don't  mean  that  sort  of  education.  He 
says  he  is  going  to  make  a  man  of  the  world  of  me,  and 
wants  me  to  begin  early.  Most  people,  he  says,  haven't 
an  idea  of  how  to  amuse  themselves  properly.  We've 


106  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

only  got  one  life,  and  it's  a  pity  to  waste  an  hour  of 
it.  It  goes  soon  enough." 

This  philosophy  of  life  was  so  unlike  that  into  which 
Richard  had  been  initiated  at  home  that  its  expres- 
sion interested  him.  He  thought  that  on  the  whole 
it  had  something  to  recommend  it,  although  Lau- 
rence's manner  of  setting  it  forth  erred  on  the  side 
of  crudity. 

At  luncheon  Laurence  took  advantage  of  his  educa- 
tion as  a  man  of  the  world  and  carried  on  with  no 
little  resource  and  self-possession  an  entertaining  con- 
versation with  his  hostess.  Mrs.  Moggeridge  was 
charmed. 

"  I  think  you  shall  come  driving  with  me  this  after- 
noon," she  said ;  "  I  have  to  pay  some  calls.  Richard, 
you  will  not  mind  being  left  to  yourself,  will  you?  I 
must  have  the  brougham,  as  it  is  wet,  and  there  is  not 
room  for  more  than  two." 

Richard,  who  had  sat  almost  completely  silent  during 
the  progress  of  the  meal,  did  not  mind  being  left  to 
himself  in  the  least,  and  said  so,  perhaps  with  more 
energy  than  the  occasion  warranted,  for  his  aunt  looked 
at  him  critically.  "  I  suppose  it  is  hardly  to  be  ex- 
pected that  a  boy  should  like  to  go  driving  in  a  closed 
carriage,"  she  said.  "  Laurence,  I  do  not  wish  to  take 
you  if  you  prefer  to  remain  behind." 

"  Indeed,  I  would  much  rather  come  with  you,"  re- 
plied Laurence,  fervently.  "  I  shall  enjoy  it,  and  it 
is  very  kind  of  you  to  ask  me."  But  when  the  boys 
were  alone  he  expressed  himself  in  a  different  manner. 

"  What  a  bore !  "  he  said.  "  If  there  is  one  thing  I 
do  hate  it  is  pottering  along  in  a  brougham." 

Honest  Richard  opened  his  eyes.  "  Why,  you  said 
you  would  enjoy  it!"  he  exclaimed. 


AT  PARADINE  PARK  107 

"  Of  course  I  did — to  her.  She  wouldn't  have  liked  ii:' 
if  I  had  said  I  didn't  want  to  go." 

"  She  said  it  would  please  her  best  if  we  enjoyed  our- 
selves in  our  own  way." 

"  Well,  if  you  think  you're  pleasing  her  better  than 
I  am,  you're  welcome  to  your  opinion.  Blow  the  beastly 
brougham !  " 


CHAPTER   IX 

MRS.  MOGGERIDGE  MAKES  PRESENTS 

RICHARD  stood  at  the  door  while  Mrs.  Moggeridge  and 
Laurence  were  packed  into  the  brougham  with  great 
ceremony.  Laurence  had  apparently  recovered  his  good 
humour,  for  he  laughed  and  joked  with  his  companion 
as  Mr.  Bliss  tucked  a  fur  rug  round  his  knees  and 
otherwise  arranged  for  their  comfort,  and  altogether 
behaved  as  if  the  entertainment  arranged  for  him  were 
the  very  one  above  all  others  he  would  have  chosen  if 
he  had  been  left  to  himself.  Richard  felt  a  trifle  forlorn 
as  they  drove  away,  for  his  aunt  had  not  even  given 
him  a  nod  of  farewell,  and  the  still  falling  rain  exer- 
cised a  depressing  influence.  He  was  used  to  being 
alone,  but  this  afternoon  he  felt  inclined  for  company. 
Mr.  Bliss  stood  for  a  moment  or  two  on  the  steps  of 
the  doorway  watching  the  retreating  carriage.  Rich- 
ard, after  his  experience  of  the  day  before,  was  inclined 
to  regard  him  as  an  intimate  friend  in  spite  of  the  con- 
strained air  he  adopted  in  the  presence  of  his  mistress. 
"  I  say,"  he  said,  in  a  friendly  manner,  "  what  are  you 
going  to  do  this  afternoon?  " 

Mr.  Bliss  turned  upon  him  a  look  compounded  of 
stateliness  and  respect.  "  I  have  my  work  to  do,  sir," 
he  replied. 

"  Oh,"  said  Richard,  somewhat  taken  aback.  "  I 
thought  you  might  like  to  come  and  have  a  game  at 
something  in  the  schoolroom." 

"  I  should  not  think  of  such  a  thing,  sir,"  replied  Mr. 
Bliss,  and  receded  with  dignity. 

108 


MRS.   MOGGERIDGE   MAKES   PRESENTS      109 

Richard,  thus  repulsed,  wandered  aimlessly  into  the 
schoolroom,  and  stood  at  the  window  watching  the  drip- 
ping branches  of  the  cedars  and  the  soaked  beds  of 
daffodils.  He  felt  homesick.  The  ways  of  great  houses 
such  as  this  and  of  their  inhabitants  were  strange  to 
him,  and  he  wished  himself  back  in  his  father's  rectory, 
and  above  all  in  the  forest.  "  I  shouldn't  mind  the 
rain  a  bit  there,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I  should  have 
something  to  do  indoors,  or  if  I  wanted  to  I  should  go 
out."  Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  there  was  nothing 
to  stop  him  going  out  now  if  he  wished  to,  and  with  a 
returning  sense  of  freedom  not  altogether  unmixed  with 
guilt,  he  took  his  cap  and  ran  out  into  the  garden  and 
thence  into  the  woods  which  surrounded  the  house  on 
two  sides.  Here  he  roamed  happy  and  contented  for  an 
hour,  and  in  surroundings  so  familiar  recovered  his 
equanimity.  He  met  a  keeper,  who  first  shouted  threats 
at  him  for  trespassing  and  then  apologized  when  he 
disclosed  his  identity.  They  had  some  agreeable  conver- 
sation together,  and  the  keeper  expressed  himself  sur- 
prised at  the  extent  of  Richard's  knowledge.  "  The 
other  young  gentleman,  he  'ardly  knows  a  rabbit  from 
a  hare,"  said  the  keeper,  and  Richard  was  pleased  at 
the  implied  compliment. 

When  he  thought  it  time  to  go  back  to  the  house  the 
rain  had  ceased.  The  afternoon  sun  streamed  out  on  to 
dripping  trees  and  bushes.  The  scent  of  the  soil  rose 
up  strong  and  sweet,  and  the  birds  woke  into  joyous 
clamour.  Passing  through  a  shrubbery  which  lay  be- 
tween the  wood  and  the  garden,  Richard  was  surprised 
to  meet  Mr.  Bliss,  with  a  deerstalker  cap  on  his  head 
and  a  light  overcoat  over  his  butler's  attire,  smoking  a 
cigar  in  placid  contentment.  He  was  about  to  pass  him 
with  a  mere  sign  of  recognition,  when  Mr.  Bliss  sur- 


110  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

prised  him  by  coming  to  a  halt  in  the  shrubbery  path 
and  taking  a  large  coloured  handkerchief  from  his 
pocket,  from  which,  after  a  few  of  those  flourishes  and 
passes  employed  by  all  conjurers,  he  produced  first  one 
billiard  ball,  then  a  second,  and  then  a  third,  the  whole 
operation  being  performed  in  complete  silence  and  with 
a  solemnity  beyond  description. 

«  Never  been  able  to  get  that  right  before,"  said  Mr. 
Bliss,  with  great  satisfaction,  as  he  returned  the  hand- 
kerchief and  billiard  balls  to  his  pocket.  "  It  was  first 
class,  wasn't  it?  Never  a  rattle  or  as  much  as  a  clock, 
and  the  folds  as  natural  as  if  you  was  going  to  blow 
your  nose.  That's  art,  that  is." 

"  I  never  saw  anything  better  done  hi  my  life,"  said 
Richard.  "  I  wish  you'd  do  it  again." 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Bliss.  "It  was  just  a  flash  of 
genius.  I'm  a  long  way  from  getting  it  so  perfect  that 
I  could  do  it  every  time  for  certain.  If  I  was  to  try 
it  again  now  I  should  bungle  it.  You  practise  for  weeks 
together  and  you  think  you're  never  going  to  succeed. 
Then  there  comes  a  little  bit  of  light  like  that,  and 
you're  encouraged  to  go  on  again  till  you  get  perfect. 
That's  how  all  great  things  are  done  in  the  world. 
Now  you  see  these  billiard  balls  ?  "  Mr.  Bliss  took 
them  again  out  of  his  pocket.  "  What  do  they  repre- 
sent? First  of  all  months,  and  perhaps  years,  of  steady 
practice  on  a  table— I  bought  'em  off  a  marker  in 
Stoke  Newington.  They  was  his  own  and  he'd  used 
'em  sc;  much  that  they  wasn't  quite  true.  But  they 
served  his  turn.  He'd  got  so  good  by  practising  with 
these  very  balls  that  he  could  beat  'most  anybody  that 
come  along,  and  he'll  be  champion  before  he  dies,  you 
mark  my  words.  I've  had  'em  three  years  now  and  I've 
kept  'em  no  more  idle  than  they  w«»  before.  There 


MRS.   MOGGERIDGE   MAKES   PRESENTS     111 

was  very  little  their  former  owner  couldn't  do  with 
'em  in  his  time,  and  there's  very  little  I  can't  do  with 
'em  in  mine.  Steady  hard  work,  that's  what  they  repre- 
sent, day  after  day,  month  after  month,  and  year  after 
year.  It's  a  lesson ;  and  whenever  you  feel  downcast 
over  what  you're  doing — it  may  not  be  juggling,  it  may 
not  be  billiard-playing — I  don't  care  what  it  is — you 
remember  John  Bliss  and  his  billiard  balls,  and  take 
heart." 

Richard  expressed  his  gratitude  for  this  lesson,  which 
he  thought  might  possibly  prove  of  value  to  him  in  the 
future,  and  asked  for  an  exhibition  of  skill.  This  was 
given  to  him,  and  Mr.  Bliss  certainly  achieved  some 
surprising  feats  which  showed  that  he  had  practised 
with  his  brains  as  well  as  his  hands.  Richard  thought 
it  all  most  remarkable,  and  the  agreeable  relations  that 
had  existed  between  them  during  their  previous  day's 
outing  together  seemed  to  be  fully  restored.  Mr.  Bliss 
made  no  reference  to  his  change  of  attitude,  but  Rich- 
ard now  fully  understood  that  inside  the  house  he  wished 
to  be  regarded  as  a  superior  servant,  a  very  superior 
and  dignified  servant,  while  in  his  hours  of  leisure  he 
was  a  man  and  a  juggler,  very  well  disposed  towards 
the  world  at  large  and  towards  himself  in  particular. 
His  disposition,  indeed,  towards  Richard  received  a 
striking  proof  when  the  exhibition  of  jugglery  had  been 
completed  and  admired.  Mr.  Bliss  leaned  towards  him 
and  put  a  finger  on  his  shoulder.  "  A  word  of  warn- 
ing," he  said,  confidentially.  "  I  can  put  it  to  you  out 
here  where  I  employ  my  leisure  and  throw  off  the  cares 
of  office.  Take  notice  of  what  I  say,  but  don't  repeat 
it.  If  you  ain't  careful  you're  liable  to  be  screwed  out 
— screwed  out."  Mr.  Bliss  illustrated  his  meaning  by 
the  manipulation  of  an  imaginary  corkscrew.  "  There's 


RICHARD  BALDGCK 

them  as  wish  you  well,"  he  continued,  "  and  those  as'd 
like  to  take  your  place.  You  watch  it,  and  remember 
afterwards  as  it  was  John  Bliss  who  gave  you  warning." 

So  innocent  and  inexperienced  was  Richard  that  he 
stared  at  his  adviser  without  the  remotest  idea  as  to 
what  his  mysterious  words  betokened.  He  was  about 
to  ask  for  an  explanation  when  the  creak  of  carriage 
wheels  was  heard  on  the  wet  gravel  of  the  drive  not  so 
far  off.  Mr.  Bliss  turned  on  his  heel  immediately  and 
hurried  towards  the  house,  whither  Richard  presently 
followed  him. 

Mrs.  Moggeridge  and  Laurence  had  just  alighted 
from  the  carriage,  assisted  by  Mr.  Bliss  and  his  satel- 
lites, the  butler  shaping  to  the  eye  so  vividly  as  the  very 
type  and  essence  of  all  butlerhood  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  imagine  him  having  the  slightest  affinity  with 
the  arts  of  the  juggler,  or  with  any  other  relaxation 
whatever.  Richard  came  round  the  corner  of  the  house 
and  stood  by  the  door  as  Mrs.  Moggeridge  went  into  the 
hall.  He  was  very  wet  and  his  boots  were  covered  with 
mud.  Such  a  condition  was  as  common  as  dryness  to 
him  at  home.  He  was  accustomed  to  go  out  in  all 
weathers,  and  had  never  possessed  an  umbrella  in  his 
life.  He  would  dry  his  own  clothes  and  boots  before 
the  kitchen  fire,  and  not  even  his  father  would  reproach 
him  for  getting  them  wet.  But  when  Mrs.  Moggeridge 
beheld  him  her  hands  went  up  in  horror. 

"  Where  on  earth  have  you  been?  "  she  cried. 

"  In  the  woods,"  faltered  Richard. 

"  Well,  now,  that  is  really  too  bad,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Moggeridge.  "  The  clothes  that  I  bought  you  only 
yesterday  ruined — absolutely  ruined !  Here  is  Lau- 
rence looking  clean  and  tidy,  like  a  gentleman,  and  you 
— whom  I  hoped  to  make  the  same — like  a  little  tramp. 


MRS.   MOGGERIDGE   MAKES   PRESENTS      113 

I  am  very  displeased.  Go  upstairs  and  change  your 
things  at  once,  and  do  not  go  out  again  without  asking 
my  permission." 

Richard  hung  his  head  as  she  swept  into  the  house, 
and  blushed  hotly.  This  public  reprimand  hurt  him  to 
the  core.  He  looked  up  and  saw  Laurence's  eyes  fixed 
on  him  half  in  contempt,  half  as  it  seemed  in  triumph. 
He  did  not  understand  the  look,  but  it  made  him 
angry. 

"  It's  nonsense  to  say  I  look  like  a  tramp,"  he  said. 
"  And  I  haven't  spoilt  my  clothes.  They've  only  just 
got  to  be  dried." 

"  You'd  better  tell  Mrs.  Moggeridge  so,"  said  Lau- 
rence. "  It's  nothing  to  do  with  me.  I  don't  know  what 
you're  staring  at  me  for  as  if  you  wanted  to  quarrel." 

"  Then  what  do  you  look  at  me  like  that  for?  "  asked 
Richard,  not  at  all  appeased.  "  You're  glad  she's  vexed 
with  me." 

Laurence  laughed.  "No,  I'm  not,  old  chap,"  he  said. 
"  Don't  get  waxy.  Go  and  change  your  clothes  and 
come  down  and  have  a  game." 

He  turned  away  towards  the  sitting-room,  and  Rich- 
ard went  upstairs,  half  ashamed  of  himself.  If  Lau- 
rence had  retorted  angrily,  as  most  boys  of  his  age 
would  have  done,  there  would  have  been  a  royal  quarrel 
which  would  have  eased  Richard's  spirits  immensely. 
As  it  was  he  was  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  his  own 
inferiority.  He  might  despise  the  other  boy's  taste  for 
dress  and  his  clever  drawing-room  manners.  He  could 
not  despise  this  easy  self-control,  ignoring  occasions  of 
offence.  It  put  its  owner  above  him.  He  hardly  knew 
whether  he  admired  Laurence  or  disliked  him.  Towards 
his  aunt  his  feelings  were  entirely  different.  He  had 
regarded  her  before  as  an  amiable  affectionate  lady,  so 


114-  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

easy-going  as  almost  to  approach  folly.  She  had  now- 
put  herself  into  the  category  of  grown-up  people  with- 
out any  genuine  sympathy  with  the  ways  of  boyhood, 
a  person  to  be  propitiated  when  met,  but  if  possible  to 
be  avoided.  The  realization  of  her  true  character  was  a 
blow  to  Richard.  He  felt  he  would  never  really  be 
happy  with  her,  and  the  sooner  he  went  home  the 
better. 

To  his  intense  surprise,  however,  when  he  went  down- 
stairs to  the  schoolroom,  Mrs.  Moggeridge  was  en- 
sconced behind  the  tea-urn  and  greeted  him  without  a 
trace  of  the  confusion  she  might  have  been  expected  to 
feel  at  meeting  again  with  one  upon  whom  she  had  put 
an  affront.  "  Come  along,  Richard,"  she  said.  "  Come 
to  my  tea-party.  Or,  rather,  come  and  help  entertain 
me  as  a  guest  at  yours.  Laurence  has  given  me  a 
cordial  invitation  which  I  hope  you  will  endorse." 

Really,  his  aunt  was  rather  a  remarkable  woman. 
Richard  eyed  her  questioningly,  as  she  rattled  on  with 
Laurence  in  the  highest  of  spirits,  but  was  soon  affected 
by  her  gaiety,  and  lost  all  but  an  uncomfortable  sub- 
consciousness  of  her  late  anger.  After  all  he  was  not 
unaccustomed  to  reprimands  at  home.  It  was  the  way 
of  the  grown-up  world  to  ride  roughshod  over  your 
more  sensitive  feelings.  Perhaps  it  was  not  necessary 
to  take  her  severity  seriously,  as  she  did  not  appear 
inclined  to  do  so  herself.  She  was  nice  enough  to  him 
now.  But  she  was  still  nicer  to  Laurence,  who  seemed 
to  have  flown  straight  to  the  pinnacle  of  her  favour. 

As  the  boys  were  at  breakfast  the  next  morning  a 
message  was  brought  in  from  the  head  keeper,  Richard's 
friend  of  the  day  before,  that  he  was  going  to  shoot 
some  rabbits  and  that  the  young  gentlemen  might  like 
to  accompany  him.  They  did  so,  and  spent  a  mo§t 


MRS.   MOGGERIDGE   MAKES   PRESENTS      115 

enjoyable  morning.  The  keeper  allowed  them  one  shot 
each  with  his  own  gun,  and  though  neither  of  them  hit 
anything,  for  he  would  not  allow  them  to  shoot  a  sit- 
ting rabbit,  it  was  enough  to  fire  them  both  with  a 
burning  desire  to  take  further  part  in  this  fascinating 
sport.  "  You  can't  shoot  no  more  without  a  licence," 
he  said.  "  I  should  get  into  trouble.  And  my  guns  is 
too  heavy  for  you.  Ask  the  mistress  to  get  you  a  gun 
licence  each  and  a  little  gun,  and  you  can  come  out 
with  me  again.  I'll  learn  you  to  hold  straight.  You 
can't  do  better  than  begin  with  rabbits,  so  long  as  you 
aim  at  'em  running." 

"  You  ask  Mrs.  Moggeridge,"  said  Laurence,  as  they 
returned  to  the  house. 

"  I  don't  like  to,"  said  Richard.  "  She  has  given  us 
such  a  lot  already.  It  seems  ungrateful." 

"  She'll  be  only  too  pleased.  She  has  said  lots  of 
times  we  could  ask  her  for  anything  we  wanted." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  ask  her?  She  likes  you  better 
than  me." 

"  No,  she  doesn't.  It's  only  because  you  don't  take 
the  trouble  to  amuse  her.  Besides,  you're  her  nephew. 
You  can  ask  her  for  things  when  I  can't." 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  ask  her.    I  don't  like  to." 

"  Bah  !     You're  a  funk." 

"No,  I'm  not.    And  if  I  am,  you're  just  as  bad." 

"  Well,  all  right,  then,  we  can't  shoot.  Flitch  won't 
let  us  use  his  gun  any  more." 

"  Of  course,  she  has  said — several  times — that  we  are 
to  ask  her  for  anything  we  want." 

"  That's  just  what  I  told  you.  I  suppose  she  want* 
to  be  taken  at  her  word." 

"  Still — two  guns — and  a  gun  licence  each,  that's 
another  pound.  It's  a  good  lot." 


116  RICHARD  BALDOeK 

"  Not  to  her.    It's  nothing  at  all." 

"  Well,  I  don't  mind  asking  her  if  you  come  and  back 
me  up." 

"  No.     You  must  do  it  by  yourself." 

"Who's  the  funk  now?" 

"  It's  not  funk.  You're  her  nephew  and  I'm  only  her 
guest.  Of  course  you're  the  one  to  ask  her.  You 
needn't  ask  her  straight  out.  You  can  work  up  to  it." 

"  If  I  ask  her  at  all  I  shall  ask  her  straight  out.  I 
should  be  a  funk  if  I  did  the  other  thing." 

Mrs.  Moggeridge  was  writing  in  her  boudoir.  "  Now 
what  is  it?"  she  said,  when  Richard  presented  himself 
before  her.  "  I  am  very  busy.  I  hope  you  are  enjoy- 
ing yourselves,  you  and  Laurence.  You  may  have 
everything  you  want,  but  you  must  not  disturb  me 
when  I'm  busy." 

The  fates   seemed  propitious. 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  Aunt  Henrietta,"  said  Rich- 
ard. "  We  have  been  shooting  rabbits  with  Flitch. 
But  he  won't  let  us  shoot  any  more  unless  we  have 
licences  and  guns  of  our  own.  May  we  ?  " 

Mrs.  Moggeridge  looked  at  him.  "  May  you  what  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  May  we  have  a  gun  each  and  a  gun  licence  ?  " 

"  You  mean  will  I  buy  you  each  a  gun  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Then  you  should  say  so.  May  you  have  a  gun 
might  mean  anything.  I  have  done  a  good  deal  for 
your  pleasure.  I  must  confess  I  am  a  little  disap- 
pointed that  you  are  not  satisfied." 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Henrietta ! "  cried  Richard,  cut  to  the 
heart.  "  Indeed  I  am.  But  you  told  us  to  ask  and  I 
didn't  think  you  would  mind.  But  if  you  would  rather 
not,  we  shall  be  just  as  happy  without." 


MRS.   MOGGERIDGE   MAKES   PRESENTS      117 

"  That  is  nonsense.  If  you  want  to  shoot  you  will 
naturally  be  disappointed  if  you  can't.  Does  Laurence 
want  to  as  much  as  you  do?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  why  cannot  he  come  and  ask  too  ?  Go  and 
fetch  him." 

Laurence  was  not  very  far  off.  "  Will  she?  "  he 
asked,  when  he  was  summoned. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Richard.  "She  didn't  quite 
like  my  asking.  I  wish  I  hadn't." 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  shooting  with  Flitch,  Lau- 
rence? "  asked  Mrs.  Moggeridge  when  the  boys  came 
into  the  room. 

"  Oh,  I  should  love  to,"  cried  Laurence,  enthusi- 
astically. 

"  Very  well,  then,  I  will  send  for  Flitch  and  tell  him 
to  buy  you  a  gun  each  this  afternoon,  and  to  take  out 
licences.  The  guns  are  my  presents  to  you  both,  and 
I  hope  you  will  get  a  great  deal  of  enjoyment  out  of 
them.  They  shall  be  good  ones,  so  that  you  may  use 
them  until  you  are  grown  up." 

Laurence  went  up  and  kissed  her.  "  You  really  are 
too  awfully  kind  to  us,  Mrs.  Moggeridge,"  he  said. 
"  But  you  have  done  such  a  lot  already.  I've  never 
had  such  a  good  time  anywhere." 

Mrs.  Moggeridge,  who  loved  to  play  the  lady  bounti- 
ful, and  to  be  thanked  for  doing  so,  beamed  upon  him. 
"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  do  anything  for  you,  dear  boy," 
she  said.  "  And  I  am  sure  you  are  grateful,  although 
there  is  nothing  to  be  grateful  for.  Well,  Richard,  you 
have  got  your  wish,  and  if  you  want  anything  further 
I  have  no  doubt  you  will  ask  for  it.  Indeed,  I  desire 
you  to  do  so.  Now  go  and  find  Flitch  and  tell  him  to 
come  to  me." 


118  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

The  guns  were  bought  that  afternoon  and  arrived  at 
Paradine  Park  at  the  same  time  as  Sir  Franklin  Syde, 
who  had  been  in  London  for  the  past  two  days.  The 
boys,  eager  to  behold  their  new  treasures,  were  in  the 
hall.  The  guns,  each  in  a  new  leather  case,  and  two 
boxes  of  cartridges,  were  laid  on  the  table. 

"  Hullo !  "  said  Sir  Franklin.     "  What  is  this?  " 

Laurence  looked  at  his  father,  slightly  askance. 
"  Mrs.  Moggeridge  has  given  us  each  a  gun,"  he  said. 
"  We  are  going  out  to-morrow  to  shoot  rabbits." 

"  How  did  she  know  you  wanted  a  gun  ?  "  inquired  Sir 
Franklin.  "  Did  you  ask  her?  " 

Laurence  was  silent.    "  I  did,"  said  Richard. 

"  And  you  backed  him  up,  I  suppose,"  said  Sir 
Franklin  to  his  son.  "  I  won't  have  it.  Mrs.  Mog- 
geridge has  done  everything  she  could  think  of  to  amuse 
you,  and  you  reward  her  by  asking  for  valuable  pres- 
ents. No  gentleman  behaves  like  that.  I  say  again  I 
won't  have  it.  Come  with  me." 

He  marchefl  off  to  Mrs.  Moggeridge's  room  followed 
by  Laurence.  Richard,  stricken  with  shame,  remained 
behind. 

"  Mrs.  Moggeridge,"  said  Sir  Franklin,  "  I  am 
ashamed  to  hear  that  a  son  of  mine  has  forgotten  him- 
self so  far  as  to  ask  for  and  to  accept  a  valuable  pres- 
ent from  you.  I  am  deeply  annoyed — quite  ashamed 
that  all  your  generous  kindness  should  be  rewarded  in 
this  way." 

Mrs.  Moggeridge  looked  bewildered  for  a  moment. 
"  Oh,  the  gun,"  she  said.  "  My  dear  Sir  Franklin,  it  is 
a  mere  trifle.  It  is  nothing  but  a  pleasure  to  give  him 
one.  I  like  to  see  boys  learn  to  shoot  and  that  sort 
of  thing  early." 

"  Of  course,"  replied  Sir  Franklin.     "  And  I  should 


MRS.   MOGGERIDGE  MAKES  PRESENTS      119 

have  let  him  begin  this  next  season  and  given  him  a  gun. 
I  have  no  objection  to  his  beginning  here  with  the  rab- 
bits, but  it  is  his  asking  you,  who  have  been  so  kind  to 
him,  that  I  am  ashamed  of.  I  would  not  have  believed 
that  he  could  so  far  have  forgotten  himself." 

"Oh,  but  he  did  not  ask,"  said  Mrs.  Moggeridge. 
"  Not  at  all.  It  was  Richard  who  asked — for  himself. 
I  said  I  would  give  him  a  gun,  and  then  I  wished  to 
treat  Laurence  in  the  same  way  and  sent  for  him.  He 
was  very  grateful,  and  behaved  charmingly,  I  assure 
you.  Ask — no,  nothing  of  the  sort.'* 

"  Oh,"  said  Sir  Franklin. 

"  It  was  Richard  who  asked,"  said  Mrs.  Moggeridge 
again.  "  He  came  in  by  himself.  It  was  not  until  I 
sent  for  Laurence  that  he  knew  anything  about  it." 

"  That  makes  a  difference,"  said  Sir  Franklin.  "  Of 
course,  your  nephew  has  a  right — perhaps — though  I 
think  after  what  you  have  done  for  their  enjoyment — 
but  that  is  no  concern  of  mine.  At  any  rate,  I  should 
have  been  very  angry  if  I  had  thought  Laurence  had 
behaved  in  that  way." 

"  With  regard  to  Laurence  you  may  set  your  mind 
quite  at  rest,  General,"  said  Mrs.  Moggeridge.  "  He, 
at  any  rate,  made  no  sort  of  suggestion  or  hint,  and  the 
small  present  came  to  him  as  a  complete  surprise.  It 
was  so,  was  it  not,  Laurence?  " 

Laurence  hesitated  and  grew  red. 

"  Was  it  so,  or  not  ?  "  asked  his  father,  sharply. 

"  Richard  did  say "  he  began. 

"  Richard  told  you  he  was  going  to  ask,"  inter- 
rupted Mrs.  Moggeridge.  "  That  is  very  likely.  But 
you  did  not  come  in  and  ask  with  him.  No  doubt  you 
felt  you  would  rather  not,  and  I  appreciate  your 
delicacy,  though  there  was  no  occasion  for  it.  I  think 


120  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

you  may  be  quite  satisfied,  Sir  Franklin,  and  I  hope 
you  will  let  him  accept  the  gun  and  say  no  more  about 
it." 

"You  are  kindness  itself,"  returned  Sir  Franklin. 
"  But  if  you  will  allow  me  I  will  give  him  the  gun  my- 
self. I  meant  to  give  him  one  this  year  anyhow,  and 
I  would  rather  he  had  his  first  gun  from  me.  I  should 
have  put  off  his  shooting  for  a  year  if  it  had  been  as 
I  feared,  for  I  could  not  have  allowed  such  ingratitude 
to  pass." 

So  it  was  arranged,  and  also  that  Sir  Franklin  should 
go  out  with  the  boys  next  day  and  give  them  their  first 
lesson  himself.  At  dinner  that  night  Laurence,  now 
entirely  freed  from  apprehensions,  was  in  the  highest 
spirits.  Sir  Franklin  talked  of  moors  and  coverts  and 
stubbles  and  of  his  own  introduction  to  the  art  of  shoot- 
ing many  years  before.  Mrs.  Moggeridge  listened  with 
interest  and  threw  in  an  observation  now  and  then. 
Richard  was  tacitly  ignored  and  sat  mute  and  miser- 
able. When  dinner  was  over  he  slipped  away  into  the 
schoolroom.  The  two  guns  lay  on  a  table  in  their  new 
leather  cases.  Laurence  had  been  examining  his  before 
dinner,  but  Richard  had  let  his  lie.  It  gave  him  no 
pleasure  now,  and  he  would  willingly  have  been  rid  of 
it  and  let  his  chances  of  shooting  go  by  for  ever  if  he 
could  have  escaped  the  memory  of  his  ungrateful  re- 
quest. It  now  seemed  to  him  a  shameful  thing  to  have 
done,  and  he  longed  to  ask  pardon  of  his  aunt,  but  he 
did  not  dare  to  do  so.  Laurence,  of  course,  had  escaped 
all  disagreeable  consequences — Laurence  always  did. 
He  did  not  know  exactly  how  it  had  been  done  in  this 
instance,  for  Laurence  had  not  been  very  communicative 
on  the  subject,  but  he  felt  instinctively  that  he  himself 
must  have  suffered  in  order  to  bring  about  a  result  so 


MRS.   MOGGERIDGE   MAKES   PRESENTS     121 

satisfactory  to  the  other.  He  was  very  unhappy,  too 
unhappy  to  brood  on  the  treachery  or  to  realize  it  as 
treachery.  He  longed  for  his  home.  No  one  seemed  to 
want  him  here.  He  had  sat  in  the  schoolroom,  cold 
and  miserable,  for  half  an  hour,  and  no  one  had  been 
near  him.  He  cried  a  little,  and  then  went  up  to  bed. 
There  was  nothing  to  stay  up  for,  and  there  was  no 
pleasure  to  look  forward  to  on  the  morrow. 


CHAPTER   X 

RICHARD'S  RETURN 

"  I  SHOULD  like  to  consult  with  you,  Sir  Franklin,"  said 
Mrs.  Moggeridge  when  Laurence  had  gone  to  bed.  "  Let 
me  come  and  talk  to  you  while  you  smoke  your  cigar." 

The  General  was  of  course  delighted,  and  found  him- 
self presently  ensconced  in  a  comfortable  chair  in  front 
of  the  smoking-room  fire,  prepared  to  listen  to  the  con- 
fidences of  his  hostess,  who  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hearth. 

"  I  hope  you  will  forgive  an  old  friend,"  she  said.  "  I 
must  speak  plainly,  and  you  must  not  take  offence. 
Laurence — he  is  a  charming  boy.  My  heart  goes  out 
to  him.  We  drove  together  yesterday  and  he  told  me 
something.  I  was  pleased  that  he  should  confide  in  me. 
My  feelings  towards  him  are  maternal.  He  seemed 
grievously  disappointed — well,  I  must  come  to  it — he 
said  that  you  had  told  him  you  could  not  afford  to 
carry  out  the  plans  you  had  formed  for  him — Eton, 
Cambridge — the  educational  plans." 

Sir  Franklin  leant  forward  in  his  chair  and  looked 
into  the  fire.  "  It  is  perfectly  true,"  he  said.  "  I  have 
been  unfortunate  lately.  I  don't  know  why  I  should 
hide  it  from  a  friend  so  kind  as  yourself  that  I  have 
been  extravagant  in  past  years — damnably  extravagant, 
and  my  means  are  now  precarious.  Enough  for  my 
own  simple  wants  I  have,  but  for  the  boy — the  extra 
money  has  to  be  found — well,  in  ways  that  I  need  not 
particularize.  And,  in  short,  I  have  not  been  able  to 
find  it." 

122 


RICHARD'S  RETURN  123 

"  I  quite  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Moggeridge,  who 
did  not  in  the  least  understand  that  the  chances  of 
Laurence's  education  were  dependent  upon  the  turn  of 
a  card  or  the  pace  of  a  horse.  "  Now,  I  have  a  pro- 
posal to  make  to  you.  Let  me  bear  the  expense  of 
Laurence's  education,  until  he  has  been  through  his 
school  and  University  time — and  after  that  we  will  see." 
She  held  up  her  hand,  expostulatory  against  an  ex- 
clamation of  Sir  Franklin's.  "  Wait,"  she  said,  "  I  am 
rich  and  I  have  no  children  of  my  own.  I  feel  towards 
the  boy  as  a  mother  might.  It  will  give  me  the  great- 
est pleasure.  Do  not  deprive  me  of  it.  And  no  one  need 
know." 

"  Your  offer,"  said  Sir  Franklin,  "  is  generosity  it- 
self, and  I  should  not  be  so  churlish  as  to  refuse  it  off- 
hand for  the  sake  of  petty  pride — pride  which  I  should 
indulge  in  at  my  boy's  expense.  But  have  you  thought? 
There  is  the  other  boy — your  nephew." 

Mrs.  Moggeridge's  face  darkened.  "  Richard  does 
not  please  me,"  she  said.  "  He  does  not  show  up  well 
beside  Laurence.  One  has  only  to  see  them  together. 
Take  to-day's  episode  for  instance.  His  coming  to  ask 
me — I  do  not  wish  to  be  unjust  to  the  boy,  and  I  had 
certainly  told  them  both  to  ask  for  anything  they 
wanted  for  their  amusement,  but — well,  tell  me  frankly 
how  you  view  the  matter  yourself." 

"  I  made  it  clear,  I  think,"  returned  Sir  Franklin, 
"  that  if  Laurence  had  behaved  in  that  way  T  should 
have  taken  a  serious  view  of  his  conduct.  I  should  have 
considered  it  the  height  of  ingratitude  after  all  that  you 
have  done  to  make  them  happy.  But  the  conditions  are, 
of  course,  different.  Under  the  circumstances  I  do  not 
see  that  my  young  friend  Richard  is  seriously  to 
blame," 


RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  How  so?  The  two  boys  are  on  the  same"  footing 
here." 

"Hardly  so,  are  they?  Master  Baldock  looks  upon 
himself  as  your  heir  and  the  natural  recipient  of  your 
bounties." 

"  My  heir !  Good  heavens !  How  do  you  know 
that?" 

"  He  told  Laurence  so." 

"  Can  I  believe  my  ears  ?  And  I  have  never  said  one 
word.  Oh,  the  ingratitude  and  self-seeking  of  the  world ! 
And  in  a  child !  It  is  incredible — monstrous.  I  will 
have  nothing  more  to  do  with  him.  I  am  shocked  be- 
yond measure." 

"  But,  my  dear  lady,"  said  Sir  Franklin,  "  you  must 
consider.  He  must  have  been  told  this." 

"  Yes,  and  by  that  odious  man,  his  father.  My  little 
sister — there  was  no  one  whom  I  loved  more  deeply — 
but  her  husband  I  always  detested,  and  it  is  my  belief 
that  he  killed  her.  I  have  never  forgiven  him,  though 
it  is  years  ago  since  she  died.  I  did  say  something  to 
my  sister  about  treating  the  child  as  my  own  son.  I 
remember  it,  and  if  it  had  been  a  definite  promise  I 
should  be  the  last  woman  in  the  world  to  go  back  from 
my  word.  But  I  have  never  considered  it  so.  Natu- 
rally I  must  be  allowed  to  see  how  the  child  turns  out 
before  I  can  carry  out  my  wishes — my  very  ardent 
wishes,  for  I  loved  my  sister  dearly.  But  her  husband 
I  abhor,  always  have,  and  always  shall;  and  when  I  see 
the  boy  growing  up  like  him,  grasping,  greedy,  look- 
ing forward  to  my  death  that  he  may  spend  my 
money — but  he  never  shall — I  am  quite  estranged.  I 
see  nothing  of  his  mother  in  him.  I  dislike  the 
child.  I  will  send  him  home.  I  will  do  nothing  for 
him," 


RICHARD'S  RETURN  125 

"  You  will  send  him,  I  suppose,  to  school  and  to 
college." 

"  I  shall  not.     His  father  may  do  that." 

"  It  is  not  very  much  to  do.  Forgive  my  plain  speak- 
ing. It  would  hardly  affect  you.  I  believe  the  boy  has 
set  his  heart  on  going  to  Rugby  and  Oxford  as  much  as 
my  Laurence  wants  to  go  to  Eton.  I  should  feel  very 
uncomfortable  at  the  idea  of  a  son  of  mine  ousting  your 
own  nephew." 

"  He  would  be  doing  nothing  of  the  sort.  As  you 
say,  I  am  quite  rich  enough  to  make  it  a  matter  of 
small  concern  to  me  whether  I  paid  for  one  boy's  edu- 
cation, or  two  or  twenty.  What  I  want  to  do  for 
Laurence  would  in  no  way  depend  on  my  decision  in 
regard  to  Richard.  You  may  leave  that  out  of  account, 
but  it  is  very  generous  of  you  to  plead  for  him." 

"  I  do  not  feel  that  in  the  least.  I  do  not  care  for 
the  boy  particularly.  I  do  not  think  myself  that  he 
compares  favourably  with  my  son,  but  his  bringing  up 
has  been  very  different,  and  from  what  you  say  his 
father  cannot  be  a  very  pleasant  sort  of  gentleman  to 
meet.  But  he  ought  to  have  his  start  in  life " 

"  Then  let  his  father  give  it  to  him.  He  is  his  only 
child,  and  he  can  deny  himself.  Left  to  myself  my  im- 
pulses are  generous.  I  do  not  wish  to  hoard  my  wealth 
and  spend  it  entirely  on  myself;  but  what  angers  me 
now,  and  always,  is  when  I  suspect  others  of  planning 
to  get  hold  of  my  money.  I  feel  no  kindness  towards 
them  and  can  feel  none." 

Perhaps  it  was  the  warm  glow  of  the  fire  that  turned 
Sir  Franklin's  cheeks  a  deeper  red.  "  It  is  not  my 
affair,  of  course,  to  advise  you  as  to  your  treatment  of 
your  relations,"  he  said,  "  and  I  will  say  no  more. 
With  regard  to  Laurence,  while  thanking  you  from  the 


126  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

bottom  of  my  heart  for  your  most  generous  offer,  I 
think  I  must  try  to  do  what  is  necessary  for  the  boy 
myself  or  apply  to  his  relations." 

Then  Mrs.  Moggeridge,  putting  aside  her  almost  hys- 
terical irritation,  pleaded  with  him  earnestly.  She  had 
set  her  heart  on  doing  this  for  her  favourite.  She  had 
never  met  a  boy  who  had  so  attracted  her.  She  would 
be  grievously  disappointed  if  she  could  not  have  the  joy 
of  watching  over  his  interests  during  his  boyhood  and 
youth.  She  would  feel  widowed  indeed,  utterly  lonely, 
if  her  desire  was  taken  from  her.  She  must  have  some 
young  thing  to  take  an  interest  in  and  to  help  on  in  the 
world.  And  the  end  of  it  was  that  Sir  Franklin  capitu- 
lated, gracefully,  and  with  many  heartfelt  expressions 
of  gratitude,  and  Mrs.  Moggeridge  sought  her  couch 
with  the  pleased  feeling  that  she  had  got  her  own  way 
and  that  the  opportunity  of  being  of  some  use  in  the 
world  was  not  denied  her. 

Richard  awoke  the  next  morning,  as  is  the  blessed 
habit  of  youth,  disposed  to  brighter  views  than  those 
which  had  coloured  his  lying  down.  He  no  longer  felt 
disposed,  as  he  had  done  the  night  before,  to  request  his 
aunt  to  take  back  his  gun.  He  thought  that,  after  all, 
it  would  be  of  little  use  to  her,  while  it  would  be  one  of 
his  own  chief  treasures.  She  had  given  it  to  him,  and, 
while  he  still  felt  a  little  ashamed  of  asking  for  it,  still 
she  had  told  him  to  ask  for  what  he  wanted  and  he  had 
only  taken  her  at  her  word.  He  thought  that  an  addi- 
tional warm  expression  of  his  gratitude  for  all  the 
pleasures  she  had  provided  for  him  would  probably 
balance  accounts  and  leave  him  free  to  take  advantage 
of  this  new  one  with  a  clear  conscience. 

At  this  point  Mr.  Bliss  came  into  his  room.  He  had 
on  the  same  suit  as  he  had  worn  during  their  late  expedi- 


RICHARD'S  RETURN  127 

tion  together,  but  his  face  was  not  so  cheerful  as  it  had 
been  on  that  occasion.  Neither  was  there  a  hint  in  his 
demeanour  of  the  man  and  the  juggler.  All  was  butler, 
of  the  most  respectful  and  least  approachable. 

"  You  are  to  leave  by  the  nine-thirty  train,  sir,"  he 
said,  "  and  I  am  to  accompany  you  to  town  and  see  you 
off  from  Watenoo.  Breakfast  will  be  ready  in  half  an 
hour,  and  if  you  will  get  up  now  I  will  send  John  to 
pack  your  clothes." 

Richard  stared  at  him,  his  face  suddenly  pale.  "  See 
me  off  at  Waterloo?  "  he  echoed.  "  Why?  Am  I  going 
home?" 

"  So  Mrs.  Moggeridge  has  informed  me,  sir,"  said 
the  butler,  busying  himself  with  Richard's  bath. 

"  But  why?  "  cried  Richard.  "  I  wasn't  going  home 
for  a  long  time.  Has  my  father  sent  for  me?  " 

"  I  am  not  aware,  sir.     At  least — no." 

"Am  I  being  sent  away?  Oh,  why?  What  have  I 
done?  Do  tell  me,  Mr.  Bliss."  The  poor  child  was  in 
great  distress,  ready  to  cry,  lifting  a  piteous  face  that 
would  have  melted  the  stoniest  of  butlers.  Mr.  Bliss 
allowed  himself  a  slight  relaxation. 

"  There,  sir,  don't  take  on,"  he  said ;  "  it's  all  right. 
I'll  explain  when  we  get  into  the  carriage.  Now  make 
haste  and  dress  and  come  down  to  breakfast.  I've 
ordered  you  an  omelette." 

Richard  dressed  himself  hurriedly.  He  was  terribly 
upset.  He  had  suffered  harshness  and  injustice,  but 
never  such  treatment  as  this.  His  lip  quivered,  and  only 
a  sense  of  his  manhood  kept  back  the  tears  which  the 
secrecy  of  night-time  might  have  made  permissible,  but 
not  the  hours  of  daylight.  He  was  to  be  sent  off 
in  disgrace,  surely  not  for  the  crime  of  asking  for  a 
present — a  crime  that  had  already  been  condoned,  if 


128  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

somewhat  grudgingly?  Then  why?  He  had  committed 
no  other.  He  thought  of  asking  to  see  his  aunt,  but  he 
felt  instinctively  that  his  request  would  be  useless ;  and 
as  instinctively  he  realized  that  Laurence  was  no  friend 
of  his,  and  he  would  get  no  satisfaction  in  taking  his 
trouble  to  him.  There  was  none  of  the  free-masonry  of 
boyhood  between  them,  and  he  would  be  ashamed  to  see 
Laurence  now  while  this  disgrace  hung  over  him.  The 
element  of  uncertainty  in  his  trouble  increased  it.  He 
was  deplorably  unhappy,  and  his  grief  had  something  of 
the  intensity  of  manhood's  sufferings,  marking  it  off 
from  the  easily  digested  trials  of  youth. 

The  morning  was  dull  and  leaden.  He  was  driven 
away  from  the  house  in  the  station  brougham — a  for- 
lorn little  figure  sitting  alone  in  the  carriage,  for  Mr. 
Bliss  shut  him  in  and  mounted  the  box  beside  the 
coachman.  But  when  the  lodge  gates  were  passed  the 
carriage  drew  up ;  Mr.  Bliss  got  down  from  the  box, 
opened  the  carriage  door,  stepped  in  without  a  word 
and  took  his  seat  beside  Richard.  They  drove  on 
again. 

"  Now  there's  one  thing  you've  got  to  remember," 
said  Mr.  Bliss,  impressively.  "  Whatever  happens  in 
the  future,  whether  the  crawlings  and  shovings  of  those 
anxious  to  creep  into  the  place  of  others  is  successful  or 
not,  you've  got  a  friend  in  John  Bliss.  The  necessities 
of  professional  life  do  not  always  allow  of  its  being 
shown  as  much  as  could  be  wished,  but  the  friendship's 
there  warm  and  faithful,  and  there  it  will  remain,  come 
what  will." 

Richard  felt  agreeably  consoled  by  this  speech,  the 
intention  of  which  he  thoroughly  understood,  if  its  ex- 
pression conveyed  no  very  definite  ideas  to  his  mind,  and 
be  ventured  to  slip  his  band  into  that  of  his  companion. 


RICHARD'S  RETURN  129 

Mr.  Bliss  gave  it  an  encouraging  pat  and  returned  it  to 
him ;  having  no  use  for  it  as  a  permanent  possession. 

"  As  man  to  man,"  pursued  Mr.  Bliss,  still  with  great 
earnestness,  "  I  can  make  certain  disclosures  to  you 
which,  in  other  circumstances,  must  not  part  my  lips, 
knowing  that  confidences  will  be  respected  and  not 
brought  up  at  times  when  it  would  be  awkward  so  to  do. 
Do  I  make  myself  perfectly  clear?  " 

"  You  mean,"  replied  Richard,  "  that  we  always  like 
each  other,  but  we  keep  it  to  ourselves  when  you're' on 
duty." 

"  On  duty,"  repeated  Mr.  Bliss ;  "  that's  just  the  way 
to  express  it.  You've  got  a  good  and  contriving  brain, 
and  I  can  only  say  that  if  your  liking  for  me  is  on  a 
footing  with  my  liking  for  you  we're  friends  for  life, 
always  taking  into  consideration  the  differences  of  birth 
and  education.  Now,  knowing  that  it  will  go  no  farther, 
I'll  tell  you  this :  You've  been  made  a  victim — a  victim 
of  two  things.  One  is  the  wiles  of  self-seekers  who 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  their  cunning  ways  of  going  on, 
high  up  in  the  world  though  they  be,  and  courageous  in 
a  bodily  sense,  I  make  no  doubt.  The  other  is  the 
capriciousness  of — I  won't  say  lady,  because  here  I 
must  be  cautious ;  I  won't  say  person,  because  that 
would  not  be  becoming — the  capriciousness  of  people 
whose  wealth  and  nature  makes  them  so,  and  are  readily 
worked  upon  by  designers.  I've  no  doubt  you  take  my 
meanings." 

Richard  thought  that  he  did,  and  said  so. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  continued  Mr.  Bliss.  "  Now,  what 
I  want  to  say  to  you  is  this :  Nothing  you  could  have 
done  would  have  made  things  different,  you  being  what 
you  are,  an  honest,  straightforward  young  gentleman, 
and  not  one  to  meet  guile  with  guile.  So,  in  the  first 


130  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

place,  don't  you  blame  yourself  for  what's  happened, 
and  don't  allow  others  to  blame  you  when  you're  called 
upon  to  explain  things  at  the  other  end  of  your  jour- 
ney. You  behaved  quite  right  all  through,  and  what's 
come  about  isn't  to  be  attributed  to  any  fault  of  yours. 
You  take  my  advice  and  rest  your  mind  on  that." 

This  piece  of  advice  was  just  what  Richard  wanted 
to  assuage  the  pangs  of  his  wounded  self-respect,  and 
his  spirit  rose  under  his  adviser's  commendation. 

« We're  getting  near  the  station,"  continued  Mr. 
Bliss ;  "  but  I've  one  thing  more  to  say  to  you.  You've 
seen  me  in  my  professional  capacity,  and  if  you  go  into 
great  houses  later  on  in  life  you'll  be  forced  to  acknowl- 
edge the  truth  that  there's  no  man  in  my  position — and 
I  don't  care  who  he  is,  or  what  training  he's  had — who 
beats  me  at  it.  And  how  do  you  think  I  began?  I'll 
tell  you  what  no  one  else  knows  in  this  world,  and  I'll 
tell  you  it  because  I  believe  it'll  be  a  lesson  to  you,  and 
I  know,  as  a  friend,  you'll  respect  my  confidence.  I 
began  in  a  workhouse.  That's  where  I  was  born  and 
bred.  And  do  you  think  that  leads  to  positions  of  re- 
sponsibility in  noblemen's  families,  such  as  I've  held, 
before  you're  thirty?  Not  quite.  But  the  career  I  set 
before  me  that  I  followed  out  with  only  myself  to  de- 
pend on,  and  I  got  to  the  top  of  the  tree.  Was  I 
content  when  I  got  there?  No.  I  took  up  another 
occupation  in  my  spare  hours — an  occupation  that  re- 
quires perseverance  and  concentration  above  most,  and 

— Well,  you've  seen  for  yourself  whether  I'm  making 
a  success  of  it  or  not." 

"  I  think  you're  wonderful  at  it,"  said  Richard.  "  I 
shouldn't  think  there's  a  cleverer  juggler  anywhere  than 
you." 

Mr.  Bliss's  face  took  on  an  expression  of  pain.    "  Ob, 


RICHARD'S  RETURN  131 

you  mustn't  say  that,"  he  expostulated.  "  There's 
hours  and  days  and  perhaps  years  of  application  neces- 
sary before  I  rise  to  the  level  of  the  highest,  if  I  ever 
do.  Ambitious  you  must  be,  self-confident  you  will  be 
all  the  better  for  being,  but  you  must  never  be  self- 
satisfied,  not  till  the  end  of  your  career.  And  the  appli- 
cation of  all  this  to  you  is,  stand  on  your  own  feet. 
Make  up  your  mind  early  in  life  what  you're  going  to 
do,  and  rely  on  yourself  for  doing  it.  If  accidents  come, 
such  as  riches  might  in  your  case,  use  them  to  further 
your  aims,  but  don't  depend  on  them.  It  isn't  riches 
you  want  to  make  you  happy  in  this  world ;  it's  work — 
work  with  an  object.  No  capriciousness  nor  no  base 
contrivings  can  take  that  away  from  you,  and  you'll  be 
all  the  better  man  for  holding  yourself  loose  from  what 
accident  may  or  may  not  bring  you,  and  depending  on 
yourself.  Here  we  are  at  the  station,  and  that's  my 
last  word  to  you,  carefully  thought  over,  and  the  word 
of  a  friend.  Work  with  an  object." 

Richard  thought  this  homily  most  remarkable,  im- 
pressed more  by  the  force  and  earnestness  with  which  it 
was  delivered  than  by  its  subject  matter.  But  the 
thoughtful  manner  in  which  it  was  summed  up  in  a  few 
words  which  might  abide  by  him,  enabled  him  after- 
wards to  recall  its  main  purpose,  as  a  phrase  is  some- 
times anchored  to  the  memory  by  a  word,  or  a  word  by  a 
single  letter. 

Mr.  Bliss  saw  him  off  at  Waterloo  and  furnished  him 
with  mental  provender  for  the  journey  in  the  shape  of 
numerous  attractive  journals  and  magazines,  for  which 
the  necessary  payment  was  drawn  by  the  promptings 
of  friendship  from  his  own  pocket.  He  also  shook  him 
warmly  by  the  hand  as  the  train  moved  away,  and  said, 
"  I  shan't  forget  you.  Remember,  work  with  an  object. 


152  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

Good-bye,"  and  Richard  felt  considerably  cheered  by 
his  kindness,  as  well  as  fortified  for  the  trial  that  still 
awaited  him. 

He  arrived  at  the  station  from  which  Beechurst  was 
situated  some  three  or  four  miles  early  in  the  afternoon, 
and  found  Job  Wilding  waiting  for  him  in  the  shabby 
old  vicarage  pony  cart  drawn  by  one  of  his  own  forest 
ponies.  Neither  the  appearance  of  the  equipage  nor  of 
its  driver  could  compare  in  point  of  splendour  with 
those  to  which  he  had  lately  been  accustomed,  but  his 
heart  gave  a  leap  as  he  came  out  of  the  station-yard 
and  their  home-like  familiarity  met  his  sight.  His 
home-coming  was  not  of  the  most  auspicious,  but  he  felt 
thankful  for  it  all  the  same. 

Job's  mood  appeared  to  be  one  of  rather  truculent 
reticence.  He  gave  Richard  no  greeting,  but  remarked 
in  an  injured  voice,  "  Train's  nearly  'alf-hour  late." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  replied  Richard.  "  How  are  you, 
Job?" 

"  None  the  better  for  setting  'ere  in  a  east  wind, 
thanks  to  unpunctualness.  Why  can't  people  be  punc- 
tual? Gardeners'  flesh  and  blood's  the  same  as  other 
people's,  an'  poor  folks'  rheumatiz  ain't  no  easier  than 
the  gentry's." 

"  Well,  it  isn't  my  fault  that  the  tram's  late,"  said 
Richard.  "  We'd  better  have  the  seat  a  bit  forward, 
I  think." 

Richard's  effects  were  put  in  at  the  back  of  the  cart, 
Job  grumbling  all  the  time.  "  Jump  in  sharp,"  he  said, 
when  they  were  ready  to  start.  "  We  don't  want  to  be 
dawdling  about  here  longer  nor  we  can  help." 

Richard  stood  on  the  offside  of  the  cart  with  his  foot 
on  the  step.  "  I'm  going  to  drive,  Job,"  he  said. 

"Eh?"  replied  Job,  looking  down  on  him. 


RICHARD'S  RETURN  133 

y's  my  PonJ  '•>  I'm  g°mS  t°  drive  her,"  said  the 
boy. 

"  Oh,  you  can  drive  if  you  like,"  said  Job,  putting 
the  reins  into  his  hands  and  sidling  over  on  to  the  other 
seat.  "  'Tis  all  one  to  me.  Glad  enough  to  keep  my 
'ands  a  bit  warm." 

They  drove  off  across  a  sandy  heath,  stretching  in 
ridge  and  hollow  to  right  and  left  of  them,  its  expanse 
broken  here  and  there  by  clusters  of  seedling  firs,  and 
bounded  by  lines  of  the  fast-budding  forest  trees  in  all 
gradations  of  blue  and  purple.  Richard  drew  a  deep 
breath  of  the  familiar  air,  sweetened  by  mile  upon  mile 
of  arborescence.  "  There's  no  place  like  the  forest," 
he  said. 

Job  eyed  him  askance,  "  Got  tired  ov  t'other  place, 
eh ! "  he  remarked.  "  Or  t'other  place  got  tired  o' 
you?  " 

Richard  set  his  lips  and  made  no  reply. 

"  Well,  it's  what  I  expected,"  proceeded  Job.  "  I 
warned  yer.  You  can't  never  say  you  went  away  un- 
warned." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  said  the 
boy.  "  Is  father  all  right?  " 

"  Hupset,"  replied  Job,  ironically.  "  Wonderful 
hupset." 

Richard  received  this  piece  of  information  in  silence. 
"  Nat'rally,"  Job  went  on,  "  when  the  order  was  given 
to  meet  the  train,  unexpected  like,  I  was  fur  going  into 
the  whys  and  wherefores.  But  he  took  me  up  sharp  in 
his  Christian-like  way,  and  told  me  to  mind  me  own 
business  an'  do  what  I  was  told.  '  That's  what  I'm  here 
for,'  I  says ;  '  but  havin'  the  family  welfare  at  'eart  I 
make  so  bold  as  to  inquire  whether  anything's  amiss 
with  Master  Richard,'  I  says.  '  Master  Richard  will 


134  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

answer  to  me  for  anything  that's  amiss,'  says  he,  '  and 
not  to  you,'  he  says.  *  And  I  hope  Vll  answer  well,'  I 
says,  '  for  there  ain't  too  much  justice  to  be  'ad  when 
you're  looking  into  things  what  displeases  you.'  He 
didn't  say  nothink  further,  but  went  indoors  looking 
black,  to  write  a  sermon  on  brotherly  love  continuing, 
I  make  no  doubt." 

"  You  ought  not  to  speak  of  my  father  in  that  way," 
said  Richard. 

"  That's  what  he  says  hisself,"  replied  Job.  "  'Tain't 
respectful.  Them  as  earns  respeck  gets  it,  I  says. 
Well,  you  won't  find  him  in  'is  most  meek  and  mild 
sperrits,  and  so  I  warn  ye.  If  you've  been  and  done 
anything  you  didn't  ought  to  'ave,  my  advice  to  you  is 
to  own  up  and  make  the  best  of  what  you'll  get.  But, 
then,  I  dessay  you  'aven't  done  nothing.  I  dessay  the 
contrariness  of  others  is  accountable  for  what's  hap- 
pened. Not  knowing  what  that  is  I  can't  say." 

"And  you  won  't  be  able  to  say,"  retorted  Richard. 
"You'd  better  take  father's  advice  and  mind  your  own 
business." 

"  I'll  know  all  in  good  time,"  replied  Job,  in  no  wise 
put  out. 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE  TWO  DISPLEASURES 

THEY  drove  into  the  stable-yard.  Richard  handed  the 
reins  over  to  Job,  jumped  out  of  the  cart,  and  walked 
towards  the  house. 

"  Hi,  Master  Richard !  "  Job  called  out  after  him. 
"  Here's  this  here  baggage."  He  took  no  notice,  but 
walked  straight  in  through  the  kitchen  and  the  back 
premises  and  knocked  at  the  door  of  his  father's  study. 
"  Come  in,"  said  the  Vicar's  voice,  and  he  entered,  with 
his  head  well  up,  and  stood  to  attention. 

John  Baldock  was  seated  at  his  writing-table.  He 
leant  back  in  his  chair  and  looked  at  his  son  with  con- 
tracted brow.  "  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  "  he 
asked.  "  You  were  to  have  stayed  with  your  aunt  an- 
other fortnight.  I  get  a  telegram  to  say  that  she  is 
sending  you  home  by  such  and  such  a  train.  What 
have  you  done?  " 

"  I  didn't  see  Aunt  Henrietta  before  I  left,"  said 
Richard,  "  but  I  was  told  to  give  you  this  letter." 

The  Vicar  took  the  envelope  that  was  handed  to  him 
and  laid  it  by  his  side.  "I  would  rather  hear  first  from 
you,  "  he  said. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I've  done  to  be  sent  away  in 
disgrace,  father,"  said  Richard.  "  But  I  did  one  thing 
I  wish  I  hadn't,  and  I'll  tell  you  about  that.  Aunt 
Henrietta  was  very  kind  to  us — to  me  and  Laurence 
Syde,  the  other  boy  I  told  you  about  in  my  letter — and 
got  us  ponies  to  ride  and  a  cart,  and  gave  us  other 

135 


136  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

treats.  And  she  told  us  two  or  three  times  to  ask  her 
if  we  wanted  anything  else.  So  I  asked  her  if  we  might 
have  guns  to  shoot  rabbits  with  the  keeper." 

"  Well !  " 

"  That  was  all." 

"What  do  you  mean — all?  She  did  not  send  you 
away  for  that,  I  suppose?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  That  is  the  only  thing  I  can  think 
of.  Except  that  I  don't  think  she  likes  me." 

"  It  was  not  at  all  a  right  thing  to  do,  to  ask  for 
such  an  expensive  present  as  a  gun,  and  at  your  age 
you  certainly  ought  to  have  asked  rny  permission  first 
to  handle  one.  I  am  exceedingly  displeased  at  what 
you  tell  me,  but  we  will  put  that  aside  for  the  present 
and  try  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  things.  You  say  that 
is  all,  but  you  do  not  tell  me  the  result  of  your  modest 
request." 

"  I  meant  that  that  was  all  I  was  ashamed  of — asking 
for  the  guns." 

"  The  guns !  You  did  not  ask  for  a  pair,  I  sup- 
pose? " 

"  I  asked  for  one  for  each  of  us." 

"  Did  you  ask  alone,  or  did  the  other  boy  ask  with 
you  ?  " 

"  I  asked  alone." 

"  Then  it  was  your  suggestion  that  the  request  should 
be  made  ?  " 

Richard  hesitated  for  a  moment.  "  No,  father,  it 
wasn't,"  he  said.  "  He  told  me  to  ask,  and  said  I  must 
ask  alone  as  I  was  a  relation  of  Aunt  Henrietta's  and 
he  wasn't." 

"  Then  you  put  the  blame  on  him.  I  don't  think  we 
are  getting  on  very  far,  Richard.  First  of  all  you  tell 
me  you  are  ashamed  of  doing  a  certain  thing,  as  you 


THE  TWO  DISPLEASURES  137 

ought  to  be.  Then  you  shift  the  blame  for  it  on  to 
other's  shoulders." 

The  boy  looked  his  father  straight  in  the  face.  "  I 
didn't  tell  Aunt  Henrietta  a  word  of  his  asking  me,"  he 
said.  "  And  I  haven't  told  anybody  but  you.  I  thought 
about  it  when  I  was  in  the  train,  and  I  made  up  my 
mind  I  would  tell  you  everything  exactly  as  it  hap- 
pened." 

John  Baldock  looked  steadily  into  his  eyes  for  a 
space,  and  his  look  was  returned.  "  You  may  tell  me 
the  rest  in  your  own  \vay,"  he  said.  "  When  did  this 
happen  ?  " 

"  Yesterday  morning,  after  we  had  been  out  in  the 
park  with  the  keeper.  Aunt  Henrietta  did  not  seem 
very  well  pleased  when  I  asked  her,  but  she  sent  into 
Sandley  for  the  two  guns  and  cartridges  in  the  after- 
noon. Then  Sir  Franklin  Syde  came  back  from  London 
in  the  evening,  and  I  don't  think  he  was  pleased  with 
Laurence  for  having  the  gun,  but  I  don't  know  what  he 
said  or  did.  But  at  dinner  they  talked  a  lot  about 
shooting  this  morning,  and  everything  seemed  all  right, 
only  they  didn't  talk  much  to  me,  and  I  was  very  sorry 
I  had  asked.  And  they  didn't  seem  to  want  me,  so  I 
went  away  after  dinner ;  and  I  haven't  seen  any  of  them 
since,  because  Mr.  Bliss,  the  butler,  called  me  early  and 
told  me  I  was  to  go  home." 

The  Vicar  considered  these  disclosures  for  a  time 
and  then  took  up  Mrs.  Moggeridge's  missive  and  opened 
it.  His  face  darkened  as  he  read,  and  when  he  had  fin- 
ished he  handed  the  letter  to  Richard.  "  This  puts  a 
very  different  light  on  the  story,"  he  said.  "  You  had 
better  read  it  for  yourself." 

Richard  did  so.  The  letter  was  dated  on  the  previous 
day  and  ran  as  follows: — 


138  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  Dear  John, — I  am  arranging  that  Richard  shall  be  sent 
back  to  you  to-morrow.  I  am  much  disappointed  with  the 
boy  and  can  hardly  believe  that  he  is  my  own  sister's  child. 
His  manners  and  appearance  are  rough,  but  that  I  could 
have  got  over.  What  I  will  not  put  up  with  is  what  I  have 
learnt  about  him  only  an  hour  ago,  and  I  never  wish  to  see 
him  again  on  account  of  it.  I  learn  that  he  boasts  openly 
that  he  is  to  succeed  to  my  money  after  my  death,  which,  in 
a  boy  of  his  age,  seems  to  me  quite  unforgivable,  let  alone 
that  he  will  certainly  do  no  such  thing.  I  might  have  hesi- 
tated to  believe  this  of  him  had  it  not  been  told  me  by  one 
whom  I  can  implicitly  trust  and  had  I  not  myself  had  an 
instance  of  the  way  in  which  he  regards  me  simply  as  a 
means  of  supplying  himself  with  the  amusements  he  desires. 
I  am  quite  aware  that  the  boy  cannot  have  made  up  the 
story  of  his  prospects  after  my  no  doubt  zvished-for  death 
out  of  his  own  head.  He  must  have  been  encouraged  to 
dwell  on  the  subject  by  others.  I  will  say  nothing  further 
about  that.  What  I  do  say  is  that  his  expectations  in  this 
respect  are  quite  unfounded.  I  hope  to  live  many  years 
yet,  and  when  I  do  come  to  die  my  property — which  seems 
to  excite  such  unworthy  desires  in  the  minds  of  those  who 
profess  very  different  ones  (  !) — will  be  disposed  of  in  other 
directions.  I  say  this  now  quite  plainly  so  as  to  prevent 
further  misconception.  I  am  greatly  disappointed  in  my 
nephew  and  do  not  wish  to  see  anything  further  of  him. 
Yours  truly, 

"  HENRIETTA  MOGGERIDOE." 

As  Richard  slowly  waded  through  the  earlier  sen- 
tences of  this  effusion,  written  in  a  bold  and  little  legible 
hand — his  face  reddening  as  he  took  in  their  import — 
John  Baldock  stirred  uneasily  in  his  seat.  "  Give  the 
letter  to  me,"  he  said,  "  I  will  read  over  what  concerns 
you,"  and  he  did  so,  coming  to  an  end  where  Mrs.  Mog- 
geridge's  pointed  allusions  to  himself  began.  "  Now 


THE  TWO  DISPLEASURES  139 

what  truth  is  there  in  this?  "  he  asked,  when  he  had  laid 
down  the  letter  again.  "  Is  it  possible  that  you  can 
have  done  such  a  shameful  thing  as  to  have  boasted — 
what  does  she  say? — 'boasts  openly  that  he  is  to  suc- 
ceed to  my  money  after  my  death  '?  What  is  the  truth 
of  that?" 

"  I  told  Laurence,  father,  what  you  told  me,  that 
Aunt  Henrietta  was  going  to  send  me  to  Rugby  and  to 
Oxford." 

"  That  was  a  definite  promise  made  to  me,  and  is  a 
very  different  thing." 

"  And  he  asked  me  something  about  Aunt  Henrietta's 
money.  I  said  '  yes.' ' 

"  What  do  you  mean?  Speak  plainly,  and  don't  pre- 
varicate." 

"  I  don't  remember  exactly  what  he  said ;  it  was  some- 
thing about  leaving  me  her  money,  whether  she  was 
going  to.  And  I  said  '  yes.' ' 

"  How  could  you  have  said  such  a  thing?  Who  told 
you?" 

"  Sarah  has  talked  a  good  deal  about  it,  and  Job ;  and 
I  thought  when  you  spoke  to  me  about  Rugby  that 
you  meant  it  too." 

John  Baldock  was  silent.  "  Really,  father,"  pleaded 
Richard,  "  I  didn't  boast  about  it.  He  asked  me, 
and  I  told  him  *  yes ' ;  but  I've  never  thought 
much  about  it,  as  Aunt  Henrietta  makes  out.  I've 
only  thought  about  going  to  Rugby,  and  you  told  me 
that." 

"  I  know  that,"  replied  his  father,  impatiently. 
"  You  need  not  keep  on  saying  so.  You  will  not  be 
blamed  for  anything  that  you  have  not  done.  Did  you 
say  anything  to  your  aunt  about  Rugby?  " 

"  Yes.     I  thanked  her  for  sending  me  there." 


140  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"  She  seemed  as  if  it  was  a  new  idea  to  her.  I  don't 
think  she  had  thought  about  it  lately." 

"  Did  she — but  no,  I  do  not  wish  to  cross-examine 
you  as  to  her  words.  As  to  your  telling  this  other  boy 
in  so  many  words  that  you  were  to  succeed  to  your 
aunt's  property — and  the  statement  being  repeated  to 
her — I  am  not  surprised  that  she  should  feel  acute  an- 
noyance. I  am  deeply  ashamed  of  your  having  done 
such  a  thing,  and  you  should  be  deeply  ashamed  too. 
A  boy  of  your  age  to  have  such  things  in  his  mind ! 
She  expresses  herself  strongly,  but  I  do  not  know  that 
she  is  not  completely  justified  in  what  she  says  on  the 
subject." 

Richard  was  silent.  His  father  looked  at  him  again 
impatiently.  "  Well,  have  you  nothing  to  say  about 
it?  "  he  snapped.  "  Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  feel 
ashamed?  " 

"  I  should  if  I  had  thought  about  it  in  that  way, 
father,"  replied  the  boy.  "  But  I  never  have.  I  have 
thought  a  great  deal  about  going  to  Rugby,  and  a  little 
about  going  to  Oxford,  and  that  is  all." 

John  Baldock  shifted  in  his  seat  with  an  exclama- 
tion of  impatience.  "  You  don't  deny  you  told  this 
other  boy  that  your  aunt  was  going  to  leave  you  her 
money,"  he  said.  "  And  you  say  that  Sarah  and  Job 
told  you  so.  It  was  an  unwarrantable  liberty  on  their 
part,  if  it  is  true.  And  you  say  that  you  understood  it 
to  be  so  from  me.  Most  certainly  I  have  never  told 
you  so." 

"  Didn't  you  think  that  she  was  going  to  do  so, 
father?"  asked  Richard. 

John  Baldock's  face  darkened.  "  How  dare  you 
speak  to  me  in  that  way !  "  he  said.  "  I — I "  His 


THE  TWO  DISPLEASURES  141 

angry  speech  tailed  off  into  silence.  The  two  natures 
confronted  one  another,  all  accidents  of  relationship, 
of  rulership  on  the  one  side,  and  dependence  on  the 
other,  pushed  for  the  moment  aside.  John  Baldock  saw 
his  boy,  not  as  the  ductile  child  whom  he  could  mould 
and  sway  to  his  own  will,  without  heed  to  the  factor  of 
personality,  but  with  the  character  that  was  none  of 
his  making  already  prompting  him,  the  character  which 
by  and  by  must  move  him  to  oppose  a  strong,  self- 
confident  nature  to  a  narrow,  petulant  one.  He  recog- 
nized in  a  flash  the  uprightness  and  dawning  strength 
of  the  boy's  nature,  and  with  a  twinge,  the  pettiness  of 
his  own  attitude,  seeking  causes  of  offence  so  that  he 
might  satisfy  his  impulse  to  condemn  and  browbeat 
when  he  should  have  been  sympathetic,  fatherly,  every- 
thing that  it  was  most  difficult  for  him  to  be. 

And  the  boy  saw  it,  too,  as  he  stood  before  his  father, 
the  weak  judge  who  might  be  propitiated,  but  could 
not  do  simple  justice.  In  the  light  of  the  momentary 
revelation  he  put  in  the  last  word  of  his  defence.  "  I 
thought  you  meant  that,  father,"  he  said,  "  when  you 
told  me  about  Aunt  Henrietta  sending  me  to  Rugby  and 
Oxford,  and  you  said  that  I  should  be  rich  afterwards. 
If  I  had  thought  about  it  in  the  way  Aunt  Henrietta 
thinks  I  have,  I  should  not  have  said  what  I  did  to 
Laurence." 

John  Baldock  roused  himself  to  grasp  again  his  au- 
thority, and  the  flash  of  mutual  insight  disappeared, 
but  his  tone  was  different  as  he  replied :  "  I  don't  want 
to  accuse  you  unjustly.  Perhaps  I  did  give  you  some 
reason  for  supposing — er — what  you  say.  I  admit  that 
I  thought — But  never  mind  that.  I — I — yes,  I  shall 
be  going  up  to  town — I  mean  that  I  will  go  up  and  see 
your  aunt,  and  try  to  put  this  matter  straight.  It  will 


142  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

be  the  best  way.  You  have  not  behaved  well — I  cannot 
say  that.  But " 

"  Where  do  you  think  I  haven't  behaved  well, 
father?"  asked  Richard. 

John  Baldock's  face  darkened  again.  "  I  think  you 
forget  yourself,"  he  said,  "  when  you  speak  to  me  like 
that.  In  want  of  respect  alone  I  think  you  show  a 
marked  deterioration  since  you  left  home.  If  you  have 
learnt  that  in  so  short  a  time  I  can  understand  that 
your  manners  may  not  have  been  entirely  pleasing  to 
your  aunt.  And  there  is  the  asking  for  the  gun.  That 
I  blame  you  for — strongly.  You  are  not  to  suppose 
yourself  a  martyr." 

"  I  hoped,  father,  that  if  I  told  you  everything  you 
would  not  blame  me  very  much,"  said  the  boy.  "  I  am 
very  sorry  if  I  have  done  wrong,  but  indeed  I  didn't 
mean  to.  I  think  Aunt  Henrietta  is  unkind  to  me,  and 
that  she  doesn't  understand.  Can't  you  help  me  and 
put  things  right  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  try  to  put  things  right,  as  far  as  I 
can.  You  can  go  away  now.  I  will  think  over  what  is 
best  to  be  done." 

Richard  left  the  room  without  any  further  words. 
He  was  suffering  under  the  keenest  sense  of  injustice. 
He  knew  he  had  done  nothing  wrong,  and  realized 
dimly  that  there  had  been  influences  at  work  to  bring 
him  into  disgrace  other  than  his  own  actions.  He  had 
longed  for  his  father's  sympathy,  but  knew  now  that 
he  had  never  had  much  hope  of  obtaining  it.  He  was 
old  enough  to  recognize  the  fact  that  his  father  would 
rather  condemn  than  acquit,  and  to  feel  bitter  about  it. 
He  went  out  int  the  garden  and  through  his  old-time 
gap  in  the  fencr  ;nto  the  forest  and  wandered  about  foi 
an  hour.  The  familiar  influences  presently  soothed  him, 


THE  TWO  DISPLEASURES  143 

but  as  he  returned  to  the  garden  he  said  to  himself,  "  I 
have  done  nothing  really  wrong.  I  won't  feel  ashamed 
of  myself.  Father  is  not  fair  to  me.  If  he  had  been 
kind  and  helped  me  I  would  have  loved  him  always.  He 
doesn't  want  me  to  love  him,  and  he  doesn't  love  me. 
I  wish  my  mother  had  been  alive.  I  think  she  wouldn't 
have  treated  me  like  that.  There  is  no  one  at  all  who 
really  cares  for  me."  Then  his  childhood  rose  up  and 
swamped  his  dawning  adolescence,  and  he  threw  himself 
down  under  a  great  beech  and  cried  bitterly  at  the 
thought  of  his  loneliness  and  at  the  downfall  of  his 
hopes ;  for  he  thought  he  saw  now  that  the  disturbances 
in  which  he  had  become  embroiled  would  end  his  bright 
visions  of  a  school  career  at  Rugby,  and  there  was  noth- 
ing to  take  their  place  but  a  round  of  lessons  stretching 
away  into  future  years  under  the  unsympathetic  over- 
sight of  his  father. 

While  the  boy  was  thus  tasting  the  bitterness  of  a 
great  disappointment,  his  father  sat  in  his  study  turn- 
ing over  many  things  in  his  mind.  He  was  dissatisfied 
with  the  news  he  had  learnt  of  Mrs.  Moggeridge's  change 
of  attitude,  and  he  was  dissatisfied  with  himself.  To  be 
quite  satisfied  with  himself  and  his  actions  under  any 
circumstance  or  crisis  of  life  was  a  necessity  to  John 
Baldock.  He  called  this  state  of  mind  being  at  peace 
with  God.  If  anything  happened  to  disturb  it  he  looked 
very  carefully  into  his  conscience  and  spared  no  pains  in 
tracking  down  the  offence,  which  he  sometimes  found  to 
be  the  result  of  behaviour  of  his  own,  but  more  fre- 
quently that  of  somebody  else.  Unfortunately,  the 
limits  of  his  nature  not  infrequently  hindered  the  suc- 
cess of  his  search.  He  had  no  quick  eye  for  integrity  or 
beauty  of  character,  was,  indeed,  blind  to  those  qualities 
except  when  they  bore  the  stamp  of  the  religious  creed 


'144.  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

to  which  he  adhered.  He  found  it  very  difficult  in  this 
instance  to  give  credit  to  his  son  for  the  open  honesty 
of  character  which  was  plainly  to  be  read  on  his  face. 
The  graces  of  the  boy's  nature  were  written  in  a  script 
of  which  he  had  never  sought  the  key.  But  the  instinct 
of  fatherhood,  weak  as  it  was,  was  not  wholly  lacking 
in  him,  and  his  uneasy  self-communings  were  coloured 
by  a  sense  of  protection  towards  the  child  who  had 
looked  at  him  with  a  clear  eye,  and  claimed  help  and 
support  in  his  difficulty.  He  knew  well  enough  that  the 
boy  was  not  to  blame,  nay,  further,  that  he  had  behaved 
well  in  face  of  a  situation  complicated  by  circum- 
stances he  could  not  be  supposed  to  understand.  John 
Baldock  thought  he  understood  them  himself  very 
well.  It  happened  that  he  knew  something  about 
Sir  Franklin  Syde,  his  family  and  his  family  affairs, 
through  an  accident  of  his  former  life;  and  he  had 
no  difficulty  in  supposing  that,  if  he  had  succeeded  in 
gaining  the  interest  of  a  very  rich  woman  in  himself 
and  his  son,  he  would  not  be  above  working  always  in 
a  quite  gentlemanly,  but  subtle  way  to  procure  dis- 
taste and  ultimate  dismissal  for  one  who  might  stand 
in  the  way  of  his  designs.  That  was  why  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  confront  him  and,  if  he  could  do  noth- 
ing else,  at  all  events  to  open  the  eyes  of  his  sister-in- 
law  to  the  machinations  of  one  whom  he  looked  upon  as 
an  enemy. 

When  his  mind  turned  itself  to  the  consideration  of 
this  side  of  the  question,  and  dwelt  on  what  he  regarded 
as  the  villainy  of  Sir  Franklin  Syde,  the  character  of 
his  son  stood  out  in  contrast  innocent  and  honest. 
Why,  then — the  inquiry  seemed  to  be  sprung  on  him 
from  outside  his  own  consciousness — could  he  not  have 
comforted  the  boy  with  sympathy  and  affection,  in- 


THE  TWO  DISPLEASURES  145 

stead  of  playing  the  schoolmaster?  The  scene  at  his 
wife's  death-bed  rose  once  again  to  his  memory,  and 
that  other  almost  forgotten  picture  of  the  five-year-old 
child  sobbing  in  uncomforted  trouble  at  his  harshness. 
His  spirit  was  stirred  by  a  breath  of  the  divine  love 
which  he  preached  about  continually,  but  understood  so 
little.  He  would  not  repeat  his  old  mistakes.  God 
helping  him  he  wouldn't. 

He  rose  from  his  seat  and  knelt  by  his  table.  Then 
he  went  out  of  the  room  and  into  the  garden.  Richard 
was  crossing  the  lawn  on  his  way  to  the  house,  discon- 
solate. His  eyes  were  red.  He  looked  up  at  his  father 
and  then  down  again.  John  Baldock  put  his  hand  on 
the  boy's  shoulder.  "  I  have  been  thinking  the  matter 
over,  Richard,"  he  said.  "  I  do  not  consider  that  you 
have  been  to  blame.  I  withdraw  my  displeasure." 

The  words  were  spoken  stiffly.  Native  churlishness 
plucked  at  the  skirts  of  the  angel  of  pity  and  spoiled 
the  graciousness  of  the  approach.  But  to  the  boy  the 
healing  quality  of  his  father's  words  and  halting  un- 
accustomed caress  came  with  infinite  solace.  Bitterness 
and  disappointment  were  forgotten.  He  flung  his  arms 
around  his  father's  neck  in  gratitude,  and  felt  nearer 
to  him  than  he  had  ever  done  before. 


CHAPTER   XII 

A  DISAPPOINTMENT 

JOHN  BALDOCK  reached  Sandley  in  the  afternoon.  He 
had  not  announced  his  arrival  to  Mrs.  Moggeridge.  He 
hired  an  open  fly  and  drove  out  to  Paradine  Park.  As 
he  came  out  on  to  the  brow  of  the  hill  from  which  the 
house  could  be  seen  lying  below,  he  was  aware  of  an 
upright,  military-looking  man  and  a  handsome  boy 
riding  up  the  slope  of  grass  to  his  right.  They  were 
some  distance  off,  but  he  saw  Sir  Franklin  Syde  turn 
in  his  saddle  and  gaze  at  him  from  under  bent  eye- 
brows. "My  clothes  will  tell  him  who  I  am,"  said  John 
Baldock  to  himself.  "  I  shall  not  be  allowed  to  be  very 
long  alone  with  Henrietta." 

Mrs.  Moggeridge  was  in,  and  he  was  shown  by  Mr. 
Bliss  straight  into  her  boudoir.  He  did  not  realize  that 
this  was  an  unusual  proceeding  for  which  the  demure 
and  respectful  butler  would  be  afterwards  severely 
reprimanded,  or  he  might  have  wondered  why  that  func- 
tionary should  have  departed  from  his  usual  course  and 
thus  procured  him  the  certainty  of  an  interview  with 
his  mistress  unhampered  by  the  presence  of  others. 

Mrs.  Moggeridge  showed  considerable  surprise  upon 
his  announcement.  She  was  writing  at  her  desk  with 
her  back  to  the  door  and  had  only  time  to  turn  round 
before  Mr.  Bliss  had  stated  the  visitor's  name  and  left 
the  room. 

*'  Dear  me ! "  she  exclaimed,  rising  from  her  seat. 
"  This  is  unexpected.  Bliss  does  not  usually  show 
visitors  into  this  room.  Pray  sit  down,  John,  I  will 

146 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT  147 

not  pretend  that  your  visit  gives  me  any  very  great 
pleasure.  Nor  do  I  suppose  you  come  with  any  very 
pleasant  intention.  So  we  need  not  pretend  to  be  over- 
joyed to  see  one  another.  I  dislike  pretence." 

She  spoke  quickly,  almost  breathlessly,  as  if  she 
were  labouring  under  some  excitement  and  were  anxious 
to  gain  time  to  collect  her  thoughts.  John  Baldock 
took  the  seat  to  which  she  had  motioned  him,  and  waited 
until  she  had  finished. 

"  I  have  certain  things  to  explain,  Henrietta,"  he 
said,  "  and  when  I  have  explained  them  I  will  ask  for 
explanations  from  you." 

"  Now  let  us  understand  each  other  at  once,"  inter- 
rupted Mrs.  Moggeridge.  "  I  had  Richard  here  be- 
cause I  thought  if  he  were  a  nice  well-mannered  well- 
brought-up  boy  and  pleased  me  I  would  do  something 
for  him  in  the  future.  I  admit  that.  But  he  is  not  a 
nice  boy;  he  is  not  well  mannered;  he  is  not  well  be- 
haved; and  he  does  not  please  me.  No  obligation  rests 
on  me  to  do  anything  for  him  if  I  do  not  choose.  No 
obligation  at  all.  I  do  not  choose,  and  that  ends  the 
matter." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  returned  John  Baldock,  "  it 
does  not  end  the  matter.  You  have  treated  my  boy 
with  great  unfairness  and  great  harshness,  and " 

"  Harshness !  "  snapped  Mrs.  Moggeridge  with  a 
short  laugh.  "  An  accusation  of  harshness  comes 
strangely  from  the  husband  of  my  sister." 

A  dark  flush  spread  itself  over  John  Baldock's  face, 
but  it  was  the  only  sign  that  her  words  had  told. 
"  Nevertheless  the  accusation  is  made,"  he  said.  "  You 
say  in  so  many  words — it  is  in  the  letter  you  wrote  to 
me — that  Richard  boasted  that  he  was  to  succeed  to 
your  property." 


148  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  I  do  say  so.  And  I  think  it  a  shameful  thing  in 
so  young  a  boy.  But  I  also  said  in  my  letter  that  this 
idea  must  have  been  put  into  his  head  before  it  could 
have  come  out.  And  I  will  say  as  plainly  as  you  like 
that  I  think  it  a  still  more  shameful  thing  that  you — 
yes,  you — should  have  encouraged  him  to  look  forward 
to  my  death  and  to  covet  my  money."  She  spoke  with 
great  heat,  and  John  Baldock  felt  the  hopeless  twinge 
of  the  more  or  less  logical  male  confronted  by  an  angry, 
inconsequent  woman. 

"  If  you  will  listen  to  me  for  a  moment,"  he  said, 
"  I  will  try  to  put  the  matter  before  you  in  a  true  light. 
You  did  promise  me  very  definitely  that  you  would 
undertake  the  boy's  education.  You  even  mentioned 
the  school  and  the  college  to  which  you  would  send  him 
— those  at  which  your  father,  and  my  wife's,  was  edu- 
cated. You  promised  in  a  general  way  other  things 
which  you  have  not  taken  much  trouble  to  carry  out, 
for  you  let  thirteen  years  go  by  without  caring  to  see 
the  boy.  I  know  you  are  unreliable  in  character — 

"  Thank  you,"  interpolated  Mrs.  Moggeridge. 

" — and  that  you  very  readily  make  promises  that 
you  do  not  afterwards  take  the  trouble  to  perform. 
But  this  particular  promise  was  so  definite  that  I  own 
it  has  never  once  occurred  to  me  in  all  these  years  to 
doubt  that  it  would  be  carried  out.  I  have  educated 
the  boy  myself  most  carefully,  with  the  idea  of  his  tak- 
ing full  advantage  of  his  opportunities,  and  when  the 
time  approached  for  him  to  go  to  school,  naturally,  I 
talked  to  him  about  it  and  urged  him  to  do  his 
best." 

"  I  dare  say  I  may  have  held  out  some  such  hopes ; 
but,  good  gracious  me,  haven't  you  got  sense  enough  to 
see  that  whatever  I  said  years  ago  was  contingent  on 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT  149 

the  boy's  turning  out  well?  Am  I  to  be  pinned  down 
to  words  carelessly  spoken  years  ago  in  a  moment,  per- 
haps, of  expansiveness? — I  know  I  am  expansive;  some 
people  are  kind  enough  to  call  it  generosity — when  I 
find  that  the  boy  has  not  turned  out  well,  that  he  is 
grasping,  and  calculating " 

The  temper  of  both  having  now  become  heated,  either 
contestant  was  seldom  henceforth  permitted  to  end  a 
speech  or  a  sentence  without  interruption  from  the 
other. 

"  Richard  is  not  grasping  nor  calculating,"  inter- 
rupted John  Baldock.  "  No  one  whose  judgment  was 
not  warped  by  prejudice  could  say  that  of  him.  The 
boy  has  his  faults " 

"  Many  of  them." 

"  His  lack  of  definite  religious  aspirations  some- 
times causes  me  uneasiness " 

"  Religious  fiddlesticks !  " 

"  But  I  have  closely  examined  him,  and  I  say  most 
definitely  that  he  has  cherished  no  such  unworthy  de- 
sires as  you  have  credited  him  with.  He  is  incapable 
of  them.  He  is  far  too  young  for  one  thing  to  think 
about  money  and  worldly  advantages.  Such  things 
are " 

"  But  he  does  think  about  such  things.  He  told 
Laurence  Syde  that  my  money  would  be  his  after  my 
death." 

"  In  answer  to  a  question.  The  other  boy  has  his 
eyes  fully  open  to  the  things  of  this  world,  I  can  well 
believe." 

"What  do  you  know  about  Laurence?  Nothing  at 
all.  He  is  a  most  attractive  and  open-natured  boy.  I 
suppose  Richard  has  been  trying  to  shift  the  blame  of 
his  disgrace  upon  Laurence's  shoulders." 


150  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  He  has  not.  He  has  been  generous  in  shielding  him. 
I  tell  you,  Henrietta,  you  are  doing  my  boy  and  your 
sister's  child  a  very  grave  injustice.  I  am  well  aware 
that  you  dislike  me.  You  do  not  understand  me  or 
the  motives  that  sway  my  actions.  I  am  indifferent  to 
dislike  for  my  own  sake,  but  for  that  of  the  sister  you 
professed  to  love." 

"  I  will  not  listen  to  you  on  such  a  subject.  You 
well  knew  that  I  loved  her  dearly,  and  I  cherish  her 
memory;  but  you^  John  Baldock,  now  seem  to  me  to 
have  very  little  to  do  with  her.  I  look  upon  her  short 
married  life  as  an  episode.  The  fact  is  I  do  not  recog- 
nize Richard  as  her  child.  He  seems  to  me  to  be  entirely 
yours,  and  as  you  say,  and  I  do  not  mind  repeating,  I 
have  very  little  regard  or  even  respect  for  you.  But 
why  prolong  this  very  unpleasant  interview?  I  have 
made  up  my  mind,  and  nothing  you  can  say  is  likely  to 
alter  it.  I " 

"  I  prolong  the  interview,  as  unpleasant  to  me  as  it  is 
to  you,  because  I,  too,  have  made  up  my  mind.  I  hold 
you  to  your  promise,  at  least  as  far  as  providing  Rich- 
ard with  an  education  is  concerned." 

"  If  that  had  been  all  there  need  have  been  no  diffi- 
culty. But  having  had  my  eyes  opened  to  what  is 
really  expected  of  me " 

"  That  is  all — absolutely  all.  I  make  no  further 
claims  upon  you.  I  never  have  made  claims ;  although, 
mind  this,  you  did  hold  out  distinct  hopes — more  than 
hopes,  expectations — that  you  were  going  to  make  the 
boy  your  heir." 

"  And  I  dare  say  I  should  have  done  so  if  I  had  been 
pleased  with  him." 

"  Or  if  you  had  not  come  across  others,  in  your 
unreliability,  who  for  the  moment  pleased  you  better." 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT  151 

"  You  take  a  very  strange  tone,  considering  you  come 
here  as  a  suppliant  for  my  bounty." 

"  I  do  no  such  thing.  You  may  do  what  you  like 
with  your  money.  You  have  gone  back  upon  the  prom- 
ises— for  they  amounted  to  promises — you  made  with 
regard  to  it.  You  will  not  again  be  reminded  of  them 
from  me,  and  you  can  settle  with  your  own  conscience 
the  question  of  your  behaviour  in  that  respect.  But 
the  education  stands  on  another  footing.  It  was  an 
explicit  undertaking,  and  you  have  no  right  now  to 
repudiate  it  as  a  whim.  It  means  much  for  the  boy's 
future,  and  it  would  be  a  wicked  thing  to  deprive  him 
of  it." 

Mrs.  Moggeridge  had  made  several  attempts  to  inter- 
rupt this  speech,  but  John  Baldock,  with  raised  voice 
and  masterful  mien,  had  persisted  in  it  to  the  end.  As 
he  finished,  and  she  was  about  to  reply,  the  door  of  the 
room  opened  and  Sir  Franklin  Syde  entered.  He  was 
spruce  and  cool,  in  his  riding  clothes ;  and,  as  he  gazed 
inquiringly  at  the  clergyman  in  his  shabby  black  suit, 
his  face  flushed  with  the  excitement  of  conflict,  and 
then  at  Mrs.  Moggeridge,  hardly  less  excited,  he  gained 
all  the  advantage  of  contrast,  and  appeared  to  John 
Baldock  a  formidable  adversary. 

The  Vicar  stood  up  instantly.  "  I  know  Sir  Franklin 
Syde,"  he  said,  "  though  he  does  not  know  me.  Before 
I  went  to  Beechurst  I  held  a  small  living  at  Lindseydale, 
in  Yorkshire,  and  the  patron  of  the  living  was  Mr. 
Delmar,  who  at  one  time  had  served  in  the  same  regiment 
as  Sir  Franklin." 

Sir  Franklin  sat  down  with  elaborate  unconcern.  He 
turned  his  face  away  from  Mrs.  Moggeridge  as  he  did 
so,  but  John  Baldock  saw  that  it  was  not  undisturbed. 

**  I  knew  Delmar,"  he  said,  "  when  I  was  a  captain 


152  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

and  he  a  subaltern.    We  had  not  met  for  many  years.'* 

"  You  were  not  likely  to.  Mr.  Delmar  died  a  lonely 
man.  He  had  lived  the  life  of  a  recluse  for  years.  And 
he  looked  upon  you  as  the  cause  of  his  loneliness." 

Sir  Franklin  addressed  himself  to  Mrs.  Moggeridge. 
"  The  object  of  all  this,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  cour- 
tesy and  frankness,  "  is  to  create  prejudice  against  me. 
The  fact  of  the  matter  is  that  Mr.  Delmar  and  myself 
were  both  suitors  of  the  same  lady.  She  married  me, 
and  I  believe  that  Delmar's  disappointment  was  so  great 
that  he  never  forgave  me  for  my  success." 

"  I  cannot  see,"  said  Mrs.  Moggeridge,  "  what  this 
has  to  do  with  me,  or  why  the  subject  is  brought  up  at 
all." 

"  It  is  brought  up  to  create  prejudice,"  repeated  Sir 
Franklin. 

"  It  is  brought  up,"  said  John  Baldock,  "  to  show 
you,  Henrietta,  the  kind  of  man  it  is  for  whose  sake 
you  are  throwing  over  your  own  kin.  Sir  Franklin's 
statement  is  not  a  straightforward  one.  He ' 

Sir  Franklin  rose  from  his  seat.  "  I  do  not  allow 
any  man  to  use  an  expression  of  that  sort  in  my  pres- 
ence," he  said,  very  quietly. 

John  Baldock  took  no  notice  of  him.  "  You  can 
judge  for  yourself,  Henrietta,"  he  said.  "  Mr.  Delmar 
was  actually  engaged  to  the  lady  who  became  Sir  Frank- 
lin Syde's  wife,  and  they  were  within  a  week  of  their 
marriage.  Sir  Franklin  persuaded  her  to  throw  Mr. 
Delmar  over,  and  she  did  so.  She  was  rich." 

"  Mr.  Baldock,"  said  Sir  Franklin,  still  very  quietly, 
"  you  may  either  leave  the  room  at  once  of  your  own 
accord,  or  I  will  ring  for  somebody  to  turn  you  out. 
The  choice  is  your  own." 

Timidity  played  little  part  in  John  Baldock's  char- 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT  153 

acter,  but  the  elaborate  unconcern  of  his  enemy  very 
nearly  had  its  intended  effect.  Perhaps  it  was  too  elabo- 
rate. At  any  rate,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  during 
which  he  half  rose  from  his  seat,  he  threw  off  the  im- 
pression made  by  Sir  Franklin's  manner,  and  said :  "  My 
business  is  with  my  sister-in-law.  I  don't  know,  sir,  by 
what  right  you  take  upon  yourself  to  order  me  out  of 
her  house." 

"  I  will  tell  you,  Mr.  Baldock,"  replied  Sir  Franklin. 
"  Mrs.  Moggeridge  has  promised  to  be  my  wife.  She 
has  given  me  the  right  to  protect  her  against  the  annoy- 
ance caused  her  by  men  like  yourself,  who  wish  to  take 
advantage  of  her  generosity  for  their  own  selfish  pur- 
poses." 

The  effect  of  this  statement  was  as  marked  as  Sir 
Franklin  could  have  wished.  It  was  entirely  unex- 
pected. John  Baldock  leant  back  in  his  chair,  and 
stared  at  the  speaker  and  then  at  his  sister-in-law. 

Mrs.  Moggeridge  turned  away  in  some  confusion. 
"  I  did  not  wish  the  statement  to  be  made  just  yet, 
Franklin,"  she  said. 

"  It  is  necessary,  Henrietta,"  said  Sir  Franklin. 
"  You  will  never  be  rid  of  the  designs  and  calculations 
of  Mr.  Baldock  as  long  as  you  have  only  yourself  to 
rely  on." 

Then  John  Baldock  found  his  tongue.  "  Designs  and 
calculations !  "  he  echoed,  scornfully.  "  So  that  is  why 
my  boy  has  been  pushed  aside,  elbowed  out  of  the  way 
in  case  he  should  interfere  with  your  precious  schemes! 
Henrietta,  are  you  quite  blind?  Can't  you  see  why  this 
man  who  acted  so  basely  in  his  first  marriage — a  noto- 
rious spendthrift,  almost  a  bankrupt — seeks  marriage 
with  you?  Do  you  really  think  that  it  is  for  love  of 
you — a  middle-aged  woman?  Can't  you  see  that  it  is 


154  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

your  money  that  attracts  him,  and  that  he  will  stoop 
to  any  contrivance  to  gain  his  end?  " 

Mrs.  Moggeridge,  until  the  fact  of  her  age  was 
brought  to  her  notice,  had  looked  distressed  during  this 
outburst.  She  was  now  simply  angry  and  was  about  to 
break  forth  into  speech,  but  Sir  Franklin  detained  her. 
"  I  can  understand  Mr.  Baldock's  annoyance,"  he  said. 
"  It  may  serve  as  an  excuse  for  his  insolence.  But  he 
will  now  leave  the  room  and  the  house  without  further 
ado."  He  walked  to  the  fireplace  and  rang  the  bell, 
and  then  to  the  door,  which  he  opened  invitingly. 

"  I  am  going,"  said  John  Baldock.  "  I  never  wish 
to  enter  this  house  again,  or  to  have  anything  further 
to  do  with  you,  Henrietta  Moggeridge.  You  are  a  self- 
ish, deluded  woman.  Prosperity  has  been  your  undoing, 
for  you  had  impulses  towards  goodness.  Now  they  are 
choked  out  of  existence,  and  you  are  on  the  path  to 
perdition.  You  have  behaved  cruelly  and  unjustly 
towards  your  dead  sister's  child,  and  I  pray  that  you 
may  live  to  repent  it.  As  for  your  future  husband,  you 
will  live  to  despise  him.  For  all  his  brave  outward 
show  he  is  corrupt  through  and  through,  and  it  will  be 
part  of  your  punishment  to  find  it  out  for  yourself." 

Mr.  Bliss  had  come  to  the  door  and  listened  respect- 
fully to  the  latter  part  of  this  harangue,  which  Sir 
Franklin  also  received  without  flinching.  "  Show  this 
gentleman  to  the  door,"  he  said,  when  John  Baldock 
had  finished,  "  and  do  not  admit  him  into  the  house 
again." 

"  Very  good,  Sir  Franklin,"  replied  Mr.  Bliss,  and 
showed  the  visitor  out  without  the  slightest  sign  that 
he  had  noticed  anything  unusual  in  his  method  of 
leave-taking. 

John  Baldock  walked  away  from  the  house  angry  and 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT  155 

disturbed.  He  did  not  remember  that  the  fly  that  had 
brought  him  from  the  station  was  in  the  stable-yard 
awaiting  his  return  journey.  He  walked  for  nearly  a 
mile,  immersed  in  his  angry  thoughts,  until  he  had 
passed  the  swan  pond  and  was  nearing  the  lodge  gates. 
Then  he  heard  wheels  behind  him,  and  looked  back  to 
see  the  till  now  forgotten  vehicle  he  had  hired  follow- 
ing him.  The  driver  pulled  up  when  he  reached  him, 
the  door  opened  and  his  sister-in-law's  butler  stepped 
out  and  approached  him. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Bliss,  taking  off  his  hat. 
"  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  telling  the  flyman  to  wait 
until  I  have  had  a  few  words  with  you.  I  was  unable 
to  speak  to  you  in  the  house.  My  position  does  not 
admit  of  it.  But  I  had  the  honour  of  Master  Richard's 
acquaintanceship  away  from  professional  duties,  and 
if  I  may  make  so  bold  I  should  like  to  say  that  everyone 
in  the  house  was  greatly  taken  with  the  young  gentle- 
man and  wishes  him  well." 

John  Baldock  stared  at  the  butler  as  if  he  were  at 
a  complete  loss  to  understand  his  speech,  which  was 
indeed  the  case.  He  gave  a  short,  unpleasant  laugh 
when  the  speech  was  ended.  "  Everybody  in  the  house 
by  no  means  wishes  him  well,"  he  said. 

"  I  took  the  liberty  of  referring,  sir,  to  those  hold- 
ing what  is  usually  called  a  menial  position  in  the  house- 
hold," replied  Mr.  Bliss.  "  His  attitude  towards  the 
domestics  of  the  establishment  was  that  of  a  well-bred 
and  courteous  young  gentleman,  and  naturally  it  was 
appreciated.  My  position  prevents  me  alluding  in  so 
many  words  to  what  may  or  may  not  have  been  ob- 
served during  the  discharge  of  duties  incumbent  on  me, 
but  out  here,  perhaps,  I  may  be  allowed  to  say,  as  a 
man  who  is  acquainted  with  manners  of  the  highest, 


156  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

that  Master  Richard  would  adorn  any  position,  and 
regrettable  misunderstandings — I  can't  go  any  farther 
than  that  under  present  circumstances — alone  prevented 
his  agreeableness  and  value  being  appreciated  where  it 
might  have  been  hoped  that  thus  it  would  be." 

John  Baldock  appeared  somewhat  at  a  loss  during 
the  delivery  of  this  address.  Mr.  Bliss,  a  man  of  delicate 
perceptions,  probably  grasped  the  fact  that  his  object 
would  best  be  gained  by  leaving  the  matter  where  it 
stood.  He  allowed  no  time  for  a  reply.  "  I  will  not 
detain  you  longer,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I  hope  you  will 
pardon  the  liberty  I  am  taking  in  acquainting  you  with 
the  general  appreciation  and  admiration  aroused  by 
Master  Richard.  In  the  name  of  the  household  of  Para- 
dine  Park  I  wish  him  success  and  happiness  wherever  he 
may  be.  Good  afternoon,  sir." 

Mr.  Bliss  raised  his  hat  again,  turned  on  his  heel, 
and  walked  back  the  way  he  had  come.  John  Baldock 
entered  the  carriage  and  drove  to  the  station.  Richard's 
friend,  the  butler,  had  succeeded  in  removing  from  his 
mind  the  last  trace  of  any  feeling  he  may  have  enter- 
tained that  his  son  was  in  any  way  responsible  for  the 
change  that  had  come  over  his  own  fortunes. 

That  change  was  a  hard  blow  to  Richard.  His  father 
and  he  talked  over  the  matter  in  the  Vicar's  study  after 
his  return  from  his  fruitless  expedition.  They  were 
closer  together  in  spirit  that  evening  than  they  had 
ever  been  before,  and  it  was  some  consolation  to  the 
boy  in  his  disappointment  to  feel  that  he  had  his  father's 
confidence. 

"  Your  aunt  will  do  nothing  for  you,"  John  Baldock 
told  him.  "  She  is  going  to  marry  Sir  Franklin  Syde, 
and  will  have  other  interests.  You  may  put  all  thoughts 
of  her  from  your  mind,  as  I  have  done.  We  will  speak 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT  157 

of  her  no  more.  You  understand  that  it  is  impossible 
for  me  to  send  you  to  Rugby.  I  cannot  afford  it.  You 
must  not  let  the  disappointment  weigh  too  heavily  with 
you.  Fortunately  it  is  possible  for  you  to  have  a  good 
classical  education  elsewhere.  I  have  been  thinking  over 
the  matter  seriously  on  my  journey  down.  I  shall  send 
you  next  term  to  the  Grammar  School  at  Storbridge. 
You  will  ride  to  and  fro  every  day.  I  have  prepared 
you  well  for  school  life,  and  you  ought  to  take  a  good 
position  there.  You  must  do  your  very  best  to  keep 
it.  No  doubt  this  disappointment  is  sent  us  for  our 
good.  My  ambition  for  you  is  that  you  shall  grow  up 
a  holy  man  and  do  God's  work  in  the  world.  You  can 
do  that,  as  I  have  told  you  before,  in  whatever  position 
in  life  you  occupy,  but  you  get  the  fullest  opportunities 
by  taking  Orders  in  the  Church.  I  wish  you  to  set  that 
end  in  view  and  work  towards  it.  The  way  is  plain  for 
the  next  ten  years  or  so.  There  is  an  exhibition  to  be 
obtained  from  Storbridge  Grammar  School  which  will 
help  you  at  the  University.  You  must  work  for  that 
from  the  beginning,  and  I  will  help  you  to  the  best  of 
my  power.  You  will  also  try  for  a  college  scholarship 
or  exhibition,  and  I  shall  put  by  as  much  money  as  I 
can  afford  so  that  you  may  be  able  to  live  at  Oxford 
or  Cambridge  for  four  years  without  anxiety,  and  take 
a  good  degree — if  that  be  God's  will.  Your  duty  now 
lies  plain  before  you,  and  I  hope  that  you  will  be  en- 
abled to  do  it." 

Richard  thought  that  he  would,  and  said  so.  His 
spirits  rose  somewhat  as  a  definite  scheme  of  life  was 
put  before  him.  Storbridge  would  not  be  so  good  as 
Rugby,  but  he  thought  he  might  like  to  go  there.  As 
for  taking  Orders,  he  had  no  particular  objection  to  that 
course,  The  mental  constitution  of  a  boy  of  thirteen 


158  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

seldom  impels  him  to  look  forward  as  far  as  ten  years 
ahead.  So  he  went  to  bed  late  that  night,  his  mind 
relieved  of  the  weight  that  had  recently  oppressed  it, 
and  cheered  by  the  thought  of  going  to  school  in  a 
few  weeks'  time. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

RICHARD  MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND 

ON  the  borders  of  the  forest  some  seven  miles  from  the 
village  of  Beechurst  slept  the  old  town  of  Storb-ridge, 
placidly,  like  a  veteran  in  the  evening  of  life  who  takes 
his  well-earned  ease  after  long  years  of  activity,  and 
with  contentment,  still  possessed  of  time-worn  honour. 
The  clash  of  ecclesiastical  strifes  had  echoed  round  the 
great  pile  of  its  monastic  church,  now  shorn  of  its 
dependencies.  Its  bridges  of  solid  masonry  had  rung 
to  the  tramp  of  armed  men  and  horses,  and  its  narrow 
streets  had  seen  many  a  desperate  combat.  But  now 
all  effort  and  conflict  passed  it  by.  The  church  stood 
on  a  slight  rise,  and  could  be  seen  for  miles  across  the 
low-lying  country,  intersected  by  broad  gliding  rivers 
which  encircled  the  rich  water  meadows  and  flowed  by 
sleepy  villages,  woods,  and  parks.  Round  the  church 
was  grouped  the  little  town,  retaining  much  the  same 
aspect  as  it  had  worn  for  a  hundred  years  past,  except 
that  now  and  then  an  old  house  had  been  pulled  down 
to  make  way  for  a  modern  one,  or  a  carved  and  timbered 
front  had  been  ruthlessly  refaced  according  to  Vic- 
torian ideas  of  architectural  propriety.  There  was  no 
station  within  four  miles  of  Storbridge,  and  it  had  lived 
to  see  towns  of  half  its  old-time  importance,  revivified 
through  the  arteries  of  locomotion,  surpassing  it  in 
population  and  activity  by  many  times.  There  was 
an  old  and  dwindling  market,  one  or  two  quite  unim- 
portant manufactures,  a  great  inn  exercising  a  mere 

159 


160  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

fraction  of  its  ancient  hospitalities,  a  few  old-fashioned 
shops  still  resorted  to  in  a  spirit  of  conservatism  by  the 
surrounding  gentry  and  farmers,  and  an  old  endowed 
school  occupying  what  was  left  of  the  monastic  build- 
ings. 

It  was  to  this  school  that  Richard  Baldock  was  sent 
when  his  cherished  hopes  of  Rugby  were  overthrown. 
The  fees  were  of  the  smallest,  and  the  education  on 
sound  classical  lines  of  the  best.  There  are  many  such 
schools  scattered  about  the  country.  They  form  an 
invaluable  stepping-stone  to  the  honours  of  the  Uni- 
versities and  the  learned  professions,  and  almost  alone 
among  scholastic  foundations  rebut  the  accusation  that 
opportunities  provided  by  the  beneficence  of  past  ages 
for  the  poor  have  been  appropriated  by  the  rich.  Each 
of  these  little-known  country  schools  has  its  roll  of 
honour,  and  cherishes  the  name  of  a  bishop  or  a  judge 
or  a  soldier  or  a  world-famed  scholar,  and  to  every 
poor  parson's  or  farmer's  son  among  its  scholars  is 
held  out  the  opportunity  of  a  career  in  the  world. 

On  every  weekday  except  Saturday,  wet  or  fine,  Rich- 
ard rode  the  seven  miles  between  Beechurst  and  Stor- 
bridge,  stabled  his  pony  and  went  into  chapel  at  nine 
o'clock,  and  every  afternoon,  when  school  was  over, 
rode  home  again  and  spent  the  rest  of  his  day  prepar- 
ing lessons  for  the  morrow  under  the  watchful  eye  of 
his  father.  The  school  was  small,  educating  not  more 
than  fifty  or  sixty  boys,  and  the  farmers'  and  trades- 
men's sons  who  formed  the  bulk  of  its  society,  and  were 
mostly  removed  at  the  age  of  sixteen  or  seventeen,  were 
not  for  the  most  part  distinguished  by  the  extreme 
activity  of  intellect.  He  got  into  the  Sixth  Form  after 
he  had  been  there  two  years :  and  there  seemed  little 
doubt  but  that  he  would  take  the  school  exhibition,  when 


RICHARD  MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND      161 

he  came  to  be  of  an  age  to  go  to  Oxford,  and  probably 
a  college  scholarship  or  exhibition  as  well,  for  although 
his  parts  were  not  brilliant  he  was  a  good  worker  and 
was  moving  steadily  along  the  beaten  track. 

The  bitter  disappointment  he  had  felt  when  his  ex- 
pectations of  a  career  at  a  big  public  school  were  frus- 
trated soon  wore  away,  and  his  life  was  a  happy  one. 
He  was  able  to  take  very  little  part  in  the  games  of 
his  schoolfellows,  but  these  were  not  of  such  importance 
in  the  life  of  the  Storbridge  schoolboys  as  is  usual, 
for  many  of  them,  like  himself,  came  from  a  distance,  al- 
though none  so  far ;  and  there  was  a  general  inclination 
among  the  boys  rather  more  towards  the  interests  of 
field  and  forest  and  river,  than  to  cricket  and  foot- 
ball. 

Two  years  went  over  Richard's  head  quietly  and 
happily.  No  life  could  have  been  healthier  than  that 
he  was  leading.  He  was  a  mass  of  hard  muscle,  active, 
almost  tireless.  With  his  clear  eye,  sunburnt  skin  and 
crisp  curly  hair,  he  was  a  picture  of  boyhood.  Every- 
body loved  him  for  his  open  sunny  disposition,  in  which 
there  was  no  trace  of  meanness  or  selfishness.  Even 
his  father,  harsh  and  captious  as  he  was  by  nature  and 
bound  rigidly  by  the  tenets  of  his  creed,  softened 
towards  him  and  found  himself  the  better  man  for  it. 
Richard  had  put  himself  on  a  new  footing  with  old 
Sarah,  who,  if  she  could  have  had  her  way,  would  have 
gone  on  bullying  and  scolding  him  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter.  He  half  chaffed  and  half  petted  her,  laughed 
heartily  at  her  awful  threats  of  future  doom,  and  put 
more  humanity  into  her  stony  old  heart  than  it  had  ever 
sheltered  before.  She  loved  him  dearly,  although  she 
did  not  know  it.  Job  was  his  crony  and  did  his  bidding, 
which  was  more  than  he  had  ever  done  for  his  lawful 


162  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

master.  And  he  was  the  friend  of  every  villager  in 
Beechurst,  from  the  oldest  to  the  youngest,  and  knew 
them  and  their  thoughts  and  ways  not  as  a  gentleman 
knows  his  inferiors  in  station,  but  as  they  were  known 
to  their  familiars. 

Mrs.  Meaking  still  maintained  her  gentility  by  means 
of  her  school  and  her  dressmaking,  but  the  once  trucu- 
lent Montague  or  Pug  had  not  been  seen  in  Beechurst 
since  about  the  time  that  Richard  had  begun  to  go 
over  to  Storbridge  to  school.  His  whereabouts  was 
something  of  a  mystery,  which  Mrs.  Meaking  sought  to 
wrest  to  her  own  advantage  by  telling  tales  of  his 
effulgent  prosperity,  tales  which  varied  in  detail  but 
only  increased  in  splendour  as  the  months  went  by.  He 
was  on  a  visit  to  a  relation  of  her  own,  whose  status 
grew  from  comparatively  unimposing  beginnings  to  one 
of  extreme  wealth  and  importance.  There  were  now 
beginning  to  be  hints  that  he  was  a  member  of  the 
peerage  and  had  adopted  Montague  as  a  convenient 
way  of  disposing  of  his  title  when  he  should  no  longer 
be  in  a  position  to  require  it  himself.  The  facts  of  the 
case,  which  were  perfectly  well  known  to  the  inhabitants 
of  Beechurst  generally,  were  that  Pug  Meaking  had 
left  home  early  one  morning  after  an  acrid  discussion 
overnight  with  his  mother,  and  had  never  been  heard  of 
since. 

There  was  in  the  main  street  of  Storbridge — a  nar- 
row street  with  cobbled  paving,  which  wound  irregularly 
down  to  the  river  from  the  square  in  which  stood  the 
church  and  the  old  buildings  of  the  grammar  school — 
an  old-fashioned  bookseller's  shop,  somewhat  more  im- 
portant than  a  visitor  might  have  expected  to  find  in 
such  a  town  as  Storbridge.  The  shop,  which  bore  on 
its  front  the  name  of  Gannett,  was  on  the  ground  floor 


RICHARD  MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND      163 

of  one  of  the  ancient  half-timbered  houses  of  which  a 
few  still  stood  among  the  more  modern  fronts  and 
houses  of  the  town.  In  its  dim  recesses  could  be  seen 
walls  lined  with  books  from  floor  to  ceiling — books  on 
counters  and  tables,  books  on  the  floor,  books  stacked 
untidily  in  the  oval  window,  and  at  such  a  height  as 
seriously  to  interfere  with  the  purpose  for  which  win- 
dows are  designed.  Books  overflowed  on  to  the  pave- 
ment, and  were  housed  in  rough  shelves,  and  in  a  sort 
of  horse-trough  which  ran  along  the  front  of  the  shop 
and  filled  in  either  side  of  the  doorway.  In  the  midst 
of  all  this  heaped-up  materialization  of  the  thoughts  of 
many  minds,  ancient  and  modern,  wise  and  foolish, 
moved  an  old  withered  man,  dusty  and  ill-dressed,  with 
a  high  forehead  overhanging  keen  deep-set  eyes,  a  long 
grey  beard,  and  thin  nervous  hands,  with  finger-tips 
which,  although  none  of  the  cleanest,  were  delicately 
formed.  This  was  Mr.  Gannett,  known  to  every  book- 
collector  in  England  for  his  bibliographical  knowledge 
and  for  the  deep  interest  which  could  be  extracted  from 
the  catalogues  sent  out  by  him  with  some  irregularity, 
but  on  an  average  about  twice  a  year. 

Mr.  Gannett,  wide  as  was  his  fame,  was  without  much 
honour  in  the  town  of  Storbridge.  A  few  of  the  sur- 
rounding clergy  and  landowners  whose  tastes  lay  in 
that  direction  would  come  into  his  shop  to  buy  or  to 
talk  books,  but  that  was  about  the  extent  of  his  social 
intercourse  with  his  neighbours.  He  lived  quite  alone 
in  two  rooms  over  his  shop.  An  old  woman  came  in 
every  day  to  attend  to  his  meagre  bodily  wants,  and 
left  him  to  himself  at  nightfall.  Sometimes  she  did  a 
little  cleaning,  but  as  her  excursions  with  soap  and 
water  irritated  Mr.  Gannett  exceedingly,  there  seemed 
no  particular  reason  why  she  should  put  him  and  her- 


164  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

self  out  in  this  respect,  and  she  did  so  only  when  her 
shrivelled  household  conscience  cried  an  imperative  bid- 
ding. No  neighbour  ever  disturbed  the  old  bookseller's 
solitude  after  the  shutters  of  his  shop  were  put  up  for 
the  night,  and  he  was  popularly  supposed  to  spend  his 
evenings  in  feeding  with  his  books  not  only  his  brain, 
but  his  body.  His  bugbears  were  the  town  boys,  who 
played  all  manner  of  pranks  on  him,  and  even  Richard's 
schoolfellows  at  the  grammar  school  were  not  always 
above  committing  little  pleasantries  with  him,  such  as 
mixing  his  more  expensive  books  with  the  outcasts  in 
the  penny  trough,  and  acting  generally  in  a  way  which 
pleased  their  small  sense  of  humour  as  much  as  it  en- 
raged the  bookseller. 

At  the  age  of  fifteen  Richard  was  beginning  to  nibble 
at  books,  sometimes  laid  out  a  few  of  his  scanty  coppers 
in  Mr  Gannett's  shop,  and  found  himself  frequently 
drawn  towards  an  inspection  of  his  stock.  One  day, 
after  morning  school,  he  was  turning  over  the  books  in 
the  penny  trough,  with  his  back  towards  the  doorway, 
when  he  was  astonished  to  feel  a  hand  on  his  collar  and 
himsel1  swung  out  into  the  roadway,  while  a  voice,  which 
was  no-',  that  of  Mr.  Gannett,  said,  "  You  just  be  off  out 
o*  that.  There'll  be  no  more  o'  your  grammar-grubs' 
pranks  played  here."  Grammar-grub,  it  may  be  ex- 
plained, was  an  opprobrious  term  for  the  scholars  of 
Storbridge  School,  used  by  the  town  boys  when  they 
were  in  sufficient  force  to  enable  them  to  do  so  without 
fear  of  effective  retaliation. 

Richard  was  tnrning  round  with  an  injured  face, 
prepared  strongly  to  resent  the  undeserved  imputation 
put  upon  him,  when  his  look  changed.  "  What,  Pug 
Meaking!"  he  exclaimed,  at  the  same  time  as  his  ag- 
gressor said,  "  Master  Baldock,  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir, 


but  I  have  just  turned  two  of  them  off  for  playing 
monkey  tricks,  and  I  thought  you  were  another." 

"  I  was  only  looking  at  the  books,"  said  Richard,  his 
wrath  vaporized  into  astonishment.  "  Whatever  are 
you  doing  here,  and  where  have  you  been  these  two 
years?  " 

"  I've  come  as  Mr.  Gannett's  assistant,  sir,"  said 
Meaking,  "  and  I've  been  earning  my  living  in 
London." 

"Don't  call  me  sir,"  said  Richard;  "I'm  just  the 
same  as  I  was.  Tell  us  all  about  it.  Everybody's 
wanted  to  know  what  had  become  of  you." 

Meaking  looked  up  and  down  the  street  and  behind 
him  into  the  shop  where  Mr.  Gannett  was  buried 
amongst  a  pile  of  books  on  a  desk  busily  engaged  in 
preparing  one  of  his  famous  catalogues,  and  oblivious 
to  outside  influences. 

"  Come  upstairs,"  he  said.  "  It's  dinner-time,  and 
there  won't  be  anybody  in." 

They  passed  through  the  shop,  the  old  man  taking  no 
sort  of  notice  of  them.  "Do  you  live  here?"  asked 
Richard,  as  they  made  their  way  up  the  steep  staircase 
to  the  second  floor. 

"  Yes,"  said  Meaking,  and  led  the  way  into  a  barely 
furnished  room  with  latticed  window  looking  on  to  the 
street.  The  room,  unlike  the  rest  of  those  in  the  house, 
was  neat,  and  bore  signs  of  having1  been  recently  well 
scrubbed.  Richard  gazed  round  him  in  surprise. 
"  Fancy  rinding  a  room  like  this  in  old  Goose's  house !  " 
he  said.  "  They  say  he  only  washes  himself  once  a  year, 
on  Christmas  Eve,  and  as  for  his  house ! " 

"  I  did  it  myself  before  I  went  to  bed  last  night,"  said 
Meaking.  "  I  only  came  yesterday  afternoon,  but  I'm 
not  going  to  live  in  filth.  And  I  tell  you,  Master  Bal- 


166  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

dock,  I'm  going  to  turn  this  old  house  inside  out  and 
the  business  too." 

"  Well,  let's  hear  all  about  it  from  the  beginning. 
Then  you  haven't  been  adopted  by  a  nobleman  who  is 
going  to  leave  you  his  title  and  a  large  fortune?  " 

An  expression  of  impatient  disgust  passed  across 
the  young  man's  face.  "  That's  the  sort  of  nonsense 
that's  put  about,  is  it?  "  he  said.  "  I  might  have  known 
it.  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Master  Baldock — well, 
then,  Dick,  and  I'm  pleased  to  see  you  haven't  learnt  to 
put  on  any  airs,  which  I'll  do  you  the  justice  to  say 
you  never  did  in  the  old  days — it  was  to  get  rid  of  all 
that  that  I  ran  away.  I  couldn't  put  up  with  it  no 
longer.  Mind,  I'm  not  saying  anything  against  mother 
and  don't  want  to.  She's  got  her  ways  of  looking  at 
things  and  I've  got  mine,  and  my  way  isn't  her  way. 
I  didn't  want  to  be  brought  up  genteel.  I  wanted  to 
do  something  for  myself,  and  get  on  in  the  world.  It'll 
be  time  enough  to  be  genteel  when  I've  made  a  bit  of 
money.  Until  then  I've  got  too  much  to  do  to  worry 
about  gentility.  I've  got  to  work,  and  whether  I  work 
with  my  head  or  my  hands  it's  all  one  to  me,  as  long  as 
I'm  getting  on.  I'd  listened  to  such  a  lot  of  blat — 
mind  you,  I'm  not  saying  anything  against  mother — 
about  gentility  and  what  I  might  do  and  what  I  mightn't 
do,  which  seemed  to  end  in  doing  nothing  at  all,  that 
one  night  it  suddenly  struck  me  that  I'd  had  enough  of 
it.  Don't  waste  time  in  doing  what  you  mean  to  do 
when  you've  made  up  your  mind  to  do  it,  is  one  of  my 
mottoes,  so  the  next  morning  I  cleared  out  with  a 
bundle  of  clothes  and  what  I'd  got  in  my  money-box 
and  walked  to  London.  When  I  got  there  I  made  up 
my  mind  I'd  take  the  first  job  that  offered  and  stick  to 
it  if  I  saw  my  way  to  rising  and  if  not  find  another, 


RICHARD  MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND      167 

I  struck  it  first  time.  That  was  luck,  but  luck's  the 
bird  and  pluck's  the  cage  that  catches  it,  and  you  don't 
keep  the  bird  if  you  haven't  got  the  cage  to  put  it  in. 
That's  one  of  my  mottoes.  I  make  'em  up  and  put  'em 
in  a  book,  and  one  day  I'll  print  it. 

"Well,  I  found  a  job  in  a  big  bookseller's  shop.  It 
was  to  sweep  and  dust  and  put  up  the  shutters  and  run 
errands  and  so  on,  but  it  wasn't  that  for  long.  I  did 
the  work  I  was  set  to,  and  as  much  more  as  I  could 
lay  my  hands  to,  and  whenever  I  saw  a  chance  of  nicking 
in  and  serving  a  customer  you  bet  I  took  it.  The  other 
assistants  were  only  too  glad  to  shove  off  some  of  their 
work  on  me.  They  weren't  anxious  to  do  any  more  than 
they  were  obliged,  and  I  was  taking  all  I  could  get. 
Of  course  I  got  the  first  vacant  place  when  one  of  them 
left,  and  I  learnt  all  I  could  and  did  all  I  could.  I 
didn't  think  about  amusing  myself,  I  thought  all  the 
time  about  my  work,  and  I  even  saved  a  bit  of  money. 
When  I  left  the  other  day,  after  two  years,  they  offered 
to  increase  my  screw  by  half  if  I'd  stay;  and  if  I  had 
stayed  I  should  have  been  manager  in  no  time,  and  a 
partner  sooner  or  later.  There  was  nothing  could  have 
stopped  me." 

"Why  didn't  you  stay?  "  inquired  Richard,  not  un- 
naturally. 

Meaking's  florid,  self-confident  face  took  on  a  softer 
look.  "  I  don't  mind  telling  you"  he  said,  "  though 
it  mustn't  go  any  further.  It  was  chiefly  the  forest.  I 
found  I  wanted  it.  I  was  all  right  in  London  in  the 
day  time  doing  my  work,  and  at  night  when  I'd  got 
something  else  to  do,  such  as  learning  book-keeping  and 
so  on,  but  in  the  summer  evenings  and  on  Sundays  it  was 
awful.  I  hadn't  got  any  friends,  and  I  wasn't  going  to 
waste  time  and  money  over  amusements.  I  tell  you, 


16S  ftlCHARD  BALDOCK 

Dick  Baldock,  I've  sometimes  sat  at  my  window  and 
almost  cried  at  the  thought  of  the  forest,  and  all  the 
times  we  used  to  have  there.  I've  often  thought  of  you, 
and  wished  I  could  see  you  again,  and  of  all  the  rest  of 
the  people  at  Beechurst  one  by  one,  and  of  course  of 
mother,  and  I  thought  perhaps  I  hadn't  ought  to  have 
left  her  like  that,  and  never  let  her  know  what  I  was 
doing.  So  at  last  it  came  so  as  I  couldn't  put  up 
with  it  any  longer,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  come 
back,  though  I  wouldn't  go  to  Beechurst  and  live  on 
her  till  I'd  got  something  to  do,  not  for  a  single  day  I 
wouldn't." 

"  You're  quite  a  changed  character,  Pug,"  said 
Richard.  "  I'd  never  have  thought  you'd  have  taken 
to  work  like  you  say.  You  used  not  to  be  like 
that." 

"  That's  where  you  make  a  mistake,"  replied  Mea- 
king.  "  Most  of  my  thoughts  was  taken  up  with  play 
when  you  knew  me,  but  you  never  knew  me  slack  about 
play  or  anything  but  pushing  on,  whatever  I  might  have 
been  doing." 

Richard  laughed.  "  That's  true  enough,"  he  said. 
"  But  fancy  your  taking  to  books !  I  remember  you 
saying  you'd  never  look  inside  another  if  you  could 
help  it." 

"  No  more  I  do,"  answered  Meaking,  coolly,  "  ex- 
cept perhaps  a  title-page.  If  I  ever  find  reading  books 
helps  me  to  sell  them  I'll  read  every  book  that's  pub- 
lished, but  I  haven't  found  the  necessity  of  it  yet  and 
don't  expect  to." 

"  And  how  did  you  hit  upon  Goosey-Gannett?  "  asked 
Richard.  "  You  haven't  told  me  that  yet." 

"  Look  here,  Baldock,  just  oblige  me  by  giving  the 
proprietor  of  this  business  his  proper  name.  I  shall 


RICHARD  MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND      169 

have  a  share  in  it  some  day,  and  I  don't  wish  it  to  be 
miscalled." 

"  Right  you  are.  But  you  seem  to  have  fixed  things 
up  pretty  quickly  if  you  only  got  here  twelve  hours  or 
so  ago." 

"  It  didn't  take  me  twelve  hours  to  fix  that  up.  I 
did  it  before  I  started.  When  I  was  casting  about 
how  I  could  get  back  to  the  forest  and  make  use  of  the 
business  knowledge  I'd  already  got,  I  thought  of  this 
shop,  and  I  knew  it  was  the  very  thing  for  me.  It's 
got  a  name  already,  and  I'm  the  man  to  get  it  a  bigger 
one.  There's  lots  of  room  for  development  here,  and 
it'll  be  some  years  before  I've  developed  it  up  to  what 
I  consider  its  limits.  When  I  do  I'll  look  about  for 
something  else,  but  in  the  meantime  I'll  stay  here  doing 
work  I  like  in  a  place  I  like." 

"  And  how  did  you  get  old  Goo — old  Gannett  to  take 
you  on?  Was  that  luck?" 

"  No.  That  was  the  other  thing.  I  brought  my  box 
here  from  the  station  and  put  it  down  just  inside  the 
door.  I  told  him  I  knew  he  wanted  an  assistant,  and 
mentioned  the  place  where  I  had  been  trained.  He  said 
he  hadn't  an  idea  of  taking  an  assistant,  the  shop  boy 
was  as  much  as  he  wanted  to  worry  him;  and  he  often 
thought  of  getting  rid  of  him  and  doing  his  work  him- 
self. I  said  he  could  get  rid  of  him  as  soon  as  he  liked. 
I  would  do  the  work  and  I'd  save  him  a  lot  of  trouble 
in  the  departments  of  the  business  he  didn't  care  about. 
I  got  at  him  there.  I  thought  I  should.  He  likes  pot- 
tering about  among  books,  but  as  for  selling  'em  he's  no 
more  idea  of  it  than  a  baby.  He  doesn't  want  to  sell 
them.  It's  my  belief  he'd  rather  not.  However,  it 
wasn't  anything  I  said  particularly  that  made  him  take 
me  on.  It  was  the  way  I  said  it.  I'd  determined  to  get 


170  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

into  the  business,  and  it  'ud  have  taken  a  more  wide- 
awake man  than  him  to  stop  me.  I  fixed  it  upon  my 
own  terms — I  put  'em  low  enough  at  first — sacked  the 
boy — I  don't  mind  doing  his  work  for  a  bit — and  was 
in  the  place  before  he  knew  he'd  engaged  me.  He's 
more  comfortable  in  his  mind  already.  He's  got  noth- 
ing to  do  now  but  make  up  his  catalogue.  I've  taken 
all  the  rest  off  his  shoulders.  Oh,  I  tell  you,  Dick  Bal- 
dock,  I  know  how  to  get  my  own  way  and  to  make  use 
of  it  when  I've  got  it." 

Richard  had  stared  at  him  open-mouthed  during  the 
progress  of  his  story,  fascinated  by  this  recital  of  self- 
confident  enterprise.  "  I'm  sure  I  hope  you'll  make  a 
success  of  it,  Pug,"  he  said. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Meaking.  "  But  we'll  have  no 
more  Pugs,  if  you  please,  Baldock.  Nor  Montagues 
either.  I've  got  past  the  one  and  I've  not  worked  up  to 
the  other  yet,  though  I  shall  in  time.  Montague  Au- 
gustus John  was  the  names  mother  thought  of  when  I 
was  christened,  and  many  a  kick  I've  had  for  them  in 
the  old  days,  as  you  know.  I've  chucked  the  first  two 
overboard  for  the  present,  not  having  any  use  for  'em, 
and  I'm  plain  John  Meaking  now.  Don't  you  forget  it, 
please.  Mr.  Meaking  to  the  customers,  Meaking  to  my 
superiors,  what  there  are  of  them,  and  there  won't  be 
many  in  a  few  years'  time,  and  John  to  my  friends. 
I  don't  wish  to  shove  myself  on  to  you,  Master  Bal- 
dock, for  you're  a  gentleman  born,  and  above  me — at 
present.  But  I  always  liked  you,  and  John's  at  your 
service  if  you  like  to  make  use  of  it.  Otherwise 
it's  Meaking.  I  don't  insist  upon  the  Mr.  from 
you." 

"  It  shall  be  John,"  said  Richard.  "  And  I'm  Dick 
— not  Dickie.  I'll  come  and  see  you  often  and  talk 


RICHARD  MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND       171 

about  the  forest  and  about  books.  I  like  books,  and  I'm 
getting  to  like  them  more  and  more." 

"  You  can't  come  too  often  for  me,"  returned  Mr. 
Meaking.  "  I'm  very  pleased  to  see  you  again." 

"And  I'm  pleased  to  see  you,"  said  Richard,  upon 
which  they  ratified  their  renewed  friendship  with  a  shake 
of  the  hand  and  parted. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

MEAKING  COMES  HOME 

OLD  Sarah  Wellbeloved,  now  considerably  over  sev- 
enty, still  retained  her  position  at  Beechurst  Vicarage. 
She  and  a  young  woman  from  the  village,  vice  Martha, 
the  afflicted  cook,  now  deceased,  divided  the  work  of 
the  house  between  them,  and  Sarah  claimed,  not  without 
reason,  that  she  was  as  useful,  in  spite  of  advancing 
years,  as  when  she  had  first  joined  the  household  of 
John  Baldock's  father  well  over  fifty  years  before. 
Her  spare,  diminutive  frame,  never  overweighted  with 
the  generous  juices  of  life,  retained  its  wiry  activity. 
She  was  rather  more  bent  and  withered,  and  her  hair 
was  thinner  and  whiter,  but  she  was  the  same  Sarah, 
truculently  religious  and  minatory,  as  she  had  been 
fifteen  years  ago,  when  she  had  first  inoculated  her 
charge  v.ith  a  respect  for  Holy  Writ,  as  such,  and  an 
enlivening  curiosity  on  the  subjects  of  Heaven  and 
Hell.  The  nursery  in  which  she  and  Richard  had  sat 
together  during  his  childhood  was  still  his  chief  haunt. 
He  did  his  lessons  in  his  father's  study,  but  kept  his 
more  cherished  possessions  in  the  room  upstairs,  and 
retired  there  during  such  of  his  leisure  hours  c.^  he 
did  not  spend  out  of  doors. 

One  Friday  evening,  a  few  days  after  his  encounter 
with  the  youth  whom,  in  deference  to  his  own  clearly 
expressed  wishes,  we  must  now  call  John  Meaking, 
Richard  was  sitting  by  the  Tarsery  fire,  while  Srrah 
plied  a  busy  needle,  as  of  old.  He  had  finished  the 

172 


MEAKING  COMES  HOME  173 

preparation  of  his  lessons  for  Monday,  and  was  now 
on  his  way  to  bed.  It  was  the  happiest  hour  of  his 
week,  for  he  had  a  glorious  day's  holiday  to  look  for- 
ward to,  and  nothing  on  his  mind  to  prevent  the  full 
enjoyment  of  it.  It  was  at  this  time  that  his  spirits, 
never  particularly  low,  ran  to  the  height  which  made 
him  desirous  of  teasing  somebody,  and  old  Sarah,  in 
her  dry  secretive  way,  also  rather  enjoyed  the  passage 
of  arms  into  which  she  was  regularly  inveigled  on 
Friday  evenings. 

"  Ah !  "  began  Richard  on  this  particular  evening, 
hugging  a  worsted-stockinged  knee  and  turning  a  mis- 
chievous face  upon  the  old  woman :  "  I've  got  a  piece 
of  news  that  you'd  give  a  good  deal  to  hear." 

"  If  you've  got  a  piece  of  news,"  returned  Sarah, 
"  I  shall  hear  it  soon  enough  for  my  comfort.  You 
never  kep'  nothing  to  yourself  yet,  an/  couldn't  if  you 
tried." 

"  Well,  I  think  I'll  keep  this  to  myself,  after  all.  I 
don't  suppose  Mrs.  Meaking  would  really  care  for  you 
to  hear  it  before  she  does." 

"  Eh?  "  inquired  Sarah,  looking  up  at  him  through 
her  spectacles.  "  What's  that  about  Mrs.  Meak- 
ing?  » 

"  I  said  Mrs.  Meaking  ought  to  know  of  it  first." 

"Know  of  what?" 

"  What  I've  found  out." 

"  Now,  Master  Richard,  don't  you  go  for  to  be  ag- 
gravating. If  you  got  something  to  tell  me  that  I 
ought  to  know,  you  just  tell  it  straight  out." 

"  I  never  said  you  ought  to  know  it.  I  said  you'd 
like  to." 

"  Well,  of  all  the " 

"  Now  don't  get  angry.     Anger  is  a  wicked  passion, 


174  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

sent  to  us  to  resist,  you  know.  You  often  used  to  tell 
me  that." 

"  Yes,  and  I'll  tell  it  you  again.  Precious  few's  the 
wicked  passions  you  resist.  You're  a  despiser  of  grace, 
and  given  over  to  'em.  Ah,  and  you'll  get  your  reward 
by  and  by,  unless  you  find  peace  full  and  free.  You 
mark  my  words.  There'll  be  a  deal  hotter  fire  where 
you'll  go  if  you're  not  careful  nor  the  one  you're 
a  settin'  at  now." 

"  It  couldn't  be  much  hotter,  because  the  worms 
couldn't  live  in  it.  There  will  be  worms,  won't  there? 
I  think  you  said  worms." 

"  Yes,  I  did  say  worms.  And  why  did  I  say  worms  ? 
'Cos  Revelations  said  worms  afore  me;  and  I  suppose 
he  knowed.  So  there,  Master  Clever!  And  don't  you 
go  a  scoffing  at  what's  in  the  Holy  Bible,  or  I'll  ac- 
quaint your  Pa." 

"  I'm  not  scoffing.  I  like  worms.  But  you  always 
were  an  old  tale-bearer." 

"  Now,  Master  Richard,  that  I  never  was  nor  never 
will  be,  and  well  you  know  it,  not  requiring  so  to  do, 
but  well  able  to  reprove  evil  myself  when  I  see  it — a 
saved  sinner  this  fifty  years." 

"Oh,  you  were  a  sinner,  were  you?  I  didn't  know 
you'd  ever  been  a  sinner.  What  fun  you  must  have 
had!" 

Old  '  Jarah  held  up  pious  hands  of  horror.  "  To 
think,"  she  exclaimed,  "  that  I  should  live  to  hear  such 
talk,  r.nd  from  one  I've  done  my  best  to  bring  up  in 
godly  ways,  and  scourge  the  devil  out  of !  " 

"  Oh,  you  scourged  him  out  long  ago.  I  shouldn't 
think  he'd  ever  want  to  look  at  the  back  of  a  hair 
brush  again.  I  say,  Sarah,  do  you  think  curiosity  is 
a  sin?  " 


MEAKING  COMES  HOME  175 

"  Loose  talk  is,"  retorted  Sarah,  "  and  a  wicked  one, 
as  I've  told  you  many  a  time.  You  know  where  you'll 
go  if- 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  that  all  right.  But  I  suppose 
when  you  were  really  a  sinner,  fifty  years  or  so  ago, 
you  couldn't  have  rested  till  you'd  found  out  what  I 
know." 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  then — up 
and  boxed  your  ears,  very  likely.  But  what'll  happen 
now  is  you'll  go  straight  off  to  bed  unless  there's  any- 
thing you  want  to  tell  me.  It's  past  nine  o'clock." 

"  Perhaps  I'd  better  go,  then.  I  am  rather  sleepy, 
and  I  shall  have  to  get  up  early  to-morrow." 

Richard  yawned  and  stretched  himself,  and  made  a 
feint  of  rising  from  his  seat.  But  he  kept  an  eye  on 
old  Sarah,  who  stitched  on  unconcernedly. 

"  I  s'pose  it's  something  about  that  good-for-nothing 
young  Montague,"  she  said.  "  I'd  Montague  him  if 
he  was  mine.  I  dessay  you've  heard  something  about 
him."  She  bit  off  a  piece  of  thread,  and  added  with 
a  sharp  glance  through  her  spectacles,  "  Eh?  " 

"  Well,  I  won't  keep  you  in  suspense  any  longer," 
said  Richard,  settling  himself  down  again  in  his  chair. 
"  I  know  you'd  be  hanging  over  me  all  night  to  see  if 
I  let  something  drop  in  my  sleep,  if  I  didn't  tell  you. 
He's  come  back." 

"  Well  there !  "  exclaimed  Sarah.    "  And  how  do  you 
know  ?    Have  you  seen  him  ?  " 
«  Yes." 

"  And  is  he  high  up  in  the  world,  as  the  poor  boast- 
ing creature  gives  tongue  to?  " 

Richard  told  her  where  and  how  he  had  met  the 
deserter,  and  something  of  his  hopes  and  ambitions, 
which  had  interested  him  to  admiration,  but  did  not 


176  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

interest  old  Sarah  in  the  least.  "  To  think  of  that !  " 
she  cried  in  high  glee.  "  A  boy  in  a  shop !  Well,  I'd 
give  a  hundred  pound,  if  I'd  got  it,  to  ha'  seen  her  face 
when  he  come  in  at  the  door  an'  told  her." 

"  He  hasn't  come  in  at  the  door  yet,"  said  Richard. 
"  He's  coming  over  to-morrow  afternoon.  Mrs. 
Meaking  doesn't  know  he's  at  Storbridge  yet,  or  any- 
thing about  him." 

"What  time  is  he  coming  over?"  asked  Sarah, 
sharply. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  know  for  ?  "  asked  Richard, 
in  return. 

"  I  don't  want  to  know,  if  you  put  it  that  way.  I 
only  asked  the  question." 

"  Oh,  you  wicked  old  thing !  You  do  want  to  know. 
You  want  to  catch  a  sight  of  him  before  his  mother 
does.  I  know  you  and  your  deceitful  ways." 

"  Don't  you  talk  to  me  like  that,  Master  Richard. 
A  deceitful  heart,  as  the  Good  Book  says,  is  far  from 
them  as  is  in  my  comfortable  state,  and  not  to  be 
brought  up  against  such  by  them  as  stands  without. 
And  if  I  would  like  to  see  the  prodigal  returning,  like 
husks  before  swine,  what  harm  in  that?  " 

"  None  that  I  know  of,  you  old  busybody.  Well 
now,  look  here.  I  know  what  time  he'll  be  coming  in 
to  Beechurst  to-morrow,  and  if  you  go  and  make  me 
a  large  piece  of  hot  dripping  toast  in  the  kitchen,  and 
bring  it  to  me  in  bed,  I'll  tell  you." 

"  I  couldn't  so  demean  myself.  Dripping  toast  in 
bed,  indeed !  And  at  this  time  of  night  too !  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  asking  for  such  a 
thing." 

**  Well,  if  you  won't,  you  won't.  Good-night,  Sarah 
dear." 


HEARING  COMES  HOME  177 

"  Go  along  with  you,"  said  Sarah ;  and  Richard 
retired. 

Twenty  minutes  later,  just  as  he  had  blown  out  his 
candle  and  settled  himself  to  sleep,  the  door  of  his 
bedroom  was  opened  and  Sarah  appeared,  with  a  light, 
and  a  plate  upon  which  was  the  desired  delicacy. 
"  It  so  happened,"  she  explained,  "  that  Lizzie  was 
making  some  for  our  supper,  and  a  piece  being 
left  over  here  it  is.  You  wouldn't  ha'  got  it  other- 
wise." 

"  That's  what  I  call  the  working  of  Providence," 
said  Richard,  sitting  up  in  bed,  "  if  it's  true,  which 
I  doubt,  for  you're  not  a  truthful  woman,  Sarah.  Now 
don't  be  silly.  You  know  you're  not  strong  enough  to 
take  it  away  from  me,  now  I've  got  it.  Well,  I'll  tell 
you.  He  gets  off  from  the  shop  at  one  o'clock.  Then 
I  suppose  he'll  have  his  dinner,  and  start  off  at  about 
half-past.  It  will  take  him  two  hours  to  walk  here, 
and  he  ought  to  be  getting  into  Beechurst  at  about 
half-past  three.  So  if  you  get  behind  the  hedge  in 
Ratley's  Copse  you  can  have  a  good  look  at  him,  and 
you'll  always  be  able  to  say  you  were  first." 

"  /  don't  want  to  see  the  young  good-for-nothing," 
said  Sarah.  "  You're  making  a  mistake,  Master 
Richard.  I'd  forgot  all  about  him  till  you  brought 
him  to  my  mind.  Now  you  just  lay  down  and  go  to 
sleep,  if  you've  finished  repleting  yourself  like  a  boa- 
constrictor." 

"  Quite  finished,  thank  you,"  replied  Richard,  settling 
himself  down  again  in  his  pillows.  "  Good-night,  Sarah 
dear;  and  do  learn  to  tell  the  truth.  You  know  where 
you'll  go  to  if  you  don't." 

Richard  was  up  early  the  next  morning,  preparing 
to  ride  to  the  other  side  of  the  forest  on  some  business 


178  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

of  his  own  in  connection  with  the  buying  or  selling 
of  a  pony,  and  told  Job  of  Meaking's  return,  as  a 
piece  of  interesting  news  that  might  congeal  the  frost 
of  that  retainer's  early  morning  frame  of  mind. 

"  Drat  young  Meaking !  "  growled  Job.  "  What  do 
I  care  for  he?  He  never  done  nobody  no  good  's  fur  's 
I  know,  and  ain't  likely  to  it.  Don't  let  him  poke  his 
nose  in  here,  that's  all  I  say,  or  he'll  have  a  piece  of 
my  mind." 

"  You  can't  spare  much,  Job,"  said  Richard.  "  I 
shouldn't  make  rash  prophecies  if  I  were  you." 

"  I  don't  want  none  o'  your  lip,  Master  Richard," 
returned  Job.  "  If  you  can't  speak  civil  you  just  be 
off  out  o'  this." 

"  I'm  going  as  soon  as  I'm  ready.  You're  not  nearly 
so  much  interested  in  the  news  as  Sarah  was.  She 
bribed  me  to  tell  her  what  time  Meaking  would  be 
coming  into  Beechurst  this  afternoon,  so  as  she  could 
get  a  sight  of  him  before  his  mother." 

Job  looked  up  at  him.  "  Is  that  what  she  told 
you?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  believed  her,  eh?  " 

"  Of  course  I  did.  What  else  should  she  want  to 
know  for?  " 

Job  turned  away,  and  began  to  pump  water  into  a 
stable  bucket.  "  Wonderful  these  here  autumn  tints 
are ! "  he  said  in  a  tone  of  detachment,  between  the 
strokes.  Richard  waited*  "  There's  not  nearly  so 
much  green  about  as  there  was."  More  strokes  of  the 
pump  handle.  "  Leastways,  not  on  the  trees."  Pump, 
pump,  pump.  "  I  s'pose  it's  in  the  autumn  that  green 
gets  into  people's  eyes."  Pump.  "  Some  people  can't 
see  very  far."  Pump,  pump.  "  Any  old  woman's 


MEAKING  COMES  HOME  179 

tale's    good    enough   for   them    to   swallow."      Pump. 
"  Same  as  if  it  was  an  oyster." 

"  Well,  come  on  then,"  said  Richard,  encouragingly. 
"  Get  it  out." 

Job  ceased  his  pumping.  "Ain't  you  scholard 
enough  to  see,"  he  said,  "  you  with  all  your  book- 
larnin',  that  what  that  spiteful  old  bag  o'  bones  wants 
is  to  go  and  crow  over  Mother  Meaking,  and  be  a 
settin'  there  when  the  boy  comes  in  to  see  his  mother?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  Job.  You  haven't  got  much  opinion  of 
Sarah,  I  know;  but  she  wouldn't  do  a  thing  like  that." 

"  Wouldn't  she  ?  She'd  go  and  crow  over  her  if  he 
was  being  brought  home  in  his  coffin.  She's  the  spite- 
fullest  old  interferin'  varmint  ever  I  seed.  If  she's  got 
one  foot  in  the  grave  she'd  pull  it  out  to  spite  the 
sexton.  Now  you  see  if  that  ain't  what  she's  up  to. 
I  knows  'er." 

Richard,  who  had  saddled  and  bridled  his  pony,  and 
was  ready  to  mount,  began  to  tie  his  reins  to  a  ring 
on  the  wall.  "  I'll  just  go  in  and  see  about  it,"  he 
said.  "  I  wouldn't  have  that  happen.  Meaking  ought 
to  see  his  mother  with  no-one  else  about." 

"  Look  here,"  said  Job,  "  you  leave  it  alone.  I'll  see 
to  it." 

"How?" 

"  Never  you  mind  how.  I'll  stop  'er  little  game. 
You  can  leave  it  to  me  quite  safe." 

Richard  hesitated.  "  You'll  promise?  "  he  said.  "  I 
don't  want  her  to  go  making  mischief." 

"  Yes,  I'll  promise." 

Richard  rode  off,  and  Job  went  about  his  business 
chuckling. 

In  the  afternoon  Sarah  dressed  herself  in  the  self- 
same bonnet  and  jacket  that  she  had  worn  when  she 


180  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

had  bearded  Mrs.  Meaking  ten  years  before  on  the 
subject  of  Richard's  injury,  and  set  out  about  three 
o'clock  for  that  lady's  cottage.  Mrs.  Meaking  was 
engaged  as  on  a  former  occasion,  and  showed  some 
surprise,  as  she  opened  the  door  to  her  visitor. 

"  Good-afternoon,  ma'am,"  said  old  Sarah,  pleas- 
antly. "  It  being  a  fine  afternoon  for  the  time  of 
year,  and  me  taking  a  short  walk,  and  seeing  your 
house  so  inviting,  I  made  bold  to  come  in  and  inquire." 

Mrs.  Meaking  invited  her  politely  to  step  inside. 
"  What  mischief  is  the  old  cat  up  to  now?  "  was  her 
inward  comment  as  she  handed  her  a  chair,  but  all  she 
said  was :  "  I'm  sure  I  take  your  notice  very  kindly, 
Mrs.  Wellbeloved.  And  how  is  your  saintly  master, 
and  the  young  gentleman  ?  " 

"  I  thank  you,  ma'am,"  replied  Sarah.  "  Their 
health  is  good,  neither  shall  any  plague  come  nigh  their 
dwelling.  And  I  hope  the  same  may  be  said  of  you 
and  yours." 

Her  sweetness  and  temper  were  quite  out  of  the 
common.  Usually  she  would  have  bridled  up  at  the 
implied  superiority  in  Mrs.  Meaking's  inquiry.  That 
lady  was  more  than  ever  convinced  that  there  was  some 
hidden  intention  in  her  visit,  and  set  her  wits  to  work 
to  bring  it  to  light,  carefully  watching  the  channels 
into  which  the  ensuing  conversation  was  directed,  and 
making  her  own  contributions  to  it  as  non-committal  as 
possible. 

After  circling  about  for  a  time  among  local  hap- 
penings and  personalities,  Sarah  said  affably :  "  And 
what  news  is  there  of  Mr.  Montague  lately?  For  I 
suppose  with  him  so  high  in  the  world  now,  and  up 
among  the  gentlefolks,  honour  must  be  given  where 
honour  is  due." 


HEARING  COMES  HOME  181 

"  Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?  "  said  Mrs.  Meaking  to  herself. 
"  Well,' I  don't  give  way  an  inch  there." 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Wellbeloved,"  she  replied. 
"  Your  sentiments  are  very  proper,  but  I  don't  deny 
that  others  do  not  see  the  matter  in  that  light,  and 
much  impertinence  I  have  had  to  put  up  with  on  the 
subject.  When  my  son  does  come  back  to  visit  me, 
which  I  have  asked  him  not  to  do  just  yet,  things  here 
being  not  quite  such  as  he  in  his  position  is  accustomed 
to  and  has  a  right  to  expect,  a  very  different  tune,  I 
assure  you,  will  be  sung." 

This  was  just  what  old  Sarah  wanted,  and  her 
amiability  became  almost  cloying  as  she  proceeded: 
"  Respect  to  true  gentlefolk  is  what  I  never  have  and 
never  will  be  wanting  in.  And  if  so  be  that  the  young 
gentleman  has  risen  to  a  lofty  station  in  the  world, 
far  be  it  from  me  to  forget  it." 

"  Stations  in  life,  Mrs.  Wellbeloved,  are  not  always 
marked  by  the  wealth  belonging  to  such.  You  have 
seen  me  living  quiet  and  contented  in  Beechurst,  work- 
ing for  my  living  as  if  I  was  the  same  as  them  around 
me.  But  belong  to  a  higher  station  I  do,  and  brought 
up  genteelly  I  have  been,  and  the  position  in  life  now 
taken  by  my  son  is  the  rightful  position  I  should 
occupy  myself  if  all  had  their  due." 

"  And  it's  the  position  you  will  occupy,  ma'am,  I 
make  no  doubt,  when  Mr.  Montague  does  what  a 
dutiful  son  ought  to  do  for  his  mother.  I  take  it  that 
when  he  does  come  to  visit  you  it  will  be  in  great  state 
and  gentility." 

Mrs.  Meaking  gave  a  short  laugh.  "  You  must  know, 
Mrs.  Wellbeloved,"  she  said,  "  that  the  class  of  gentle- 
folk to  which  I  belong — or  I  might  say  any  class  of 
gentlefolk — does  not  use  state  in  such  matters,  pre- 


182  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

ferring  to  act  simply,  but  as  you  say  with  gentility. 
You  need  not  expect  gold  coaches  and  footmen  witli 
powdered  wigs  and  silk  calves,  and  if  that's  what  you 
are  driving  at  disappointed  I'm  afraid  you  will  be." 

"  I'm  not  wholly  ignorant  of  the  ways  of  gentlefolk, 
ma'am,"  said  Sarah,  "  and  such  state  as  you  refer  to 
I'm  well  aware  is  only  practised  by  the  titled  nobility. 
But  rumours  I  have  heard  that  it  is  to  sech  that  Mr. 
Montague  has  now  risen.  If  so  be  as  I  am  wrong,  I 
s'pose  I  can  be  set  right." 

Mrs.  Meaking  set  her  lips  tightly  together.  "  I  was 
never  one  to  boast,"  she  said.  "  Whether  what  you 
refer  to  is  the  case  or  not,  is  not  for  me  to  say  at 
present.  Time  will  show.  But  this  I  do  say,  that  my 
own  connexions  are  high  in  the  world,  and  if  it  wasn't 
my  own  proper  pride,  not  wishing  to  be  beholden  to 
nobody,  rich  or  poor,  high  or  low,  I  might  be  sitting 
in  silks  or  satins  with  my  hands  in  my  lap,  instead  of 
working  as  now  I  do,  and  treated  with  impudence  by 
them  as  should  be  touching  their  hats  and  dropping 
curtsies  to  me." 

"  Well,  it  must  be  a  comfortable  thought  to  you, 
ma'am,  that  when  your  son  does  come  to  visit  you  he 
will  come  as  a  gentleman  equal  to  any,  if  not  in  a 
chariot  and  four,  as  is  the  way  of  the  nobility.  But 
that,  I  take  it,  need  not  be  believed  for  gospel,  well 
known  as  it  is  that  your  tongue  is  apt  to  run  faster 
than  the  truth  can  overtake  it." 

Mrs.  Meaking  bridled.  "  I  should  scorn,"  she  said, 
"  to  contradict  you.  As  a  lady  born,  brought  down 
by  misfortune  and  kept  there  by  lawful  pride,  I  must 
put  up  with  the  envious  and  backbiting  cries  of  the 
lowly.  It  is  not  for  me  to  boast  before  my  inferiors 
of  the  position  from  which  I  have  fallen,  and  to  which 


MEAKING  COMES  HOME  183 

my  son  has  risen  again.  It  is  not  for  me  to  make 
claims  of  any  sort,  nor  do  I.  And  if  my  son  were  here 
he  would  protect  me  against  such  insinuations  as  you 
are  pleased  to  make,  Mrs.  Wellbeloved." 

"  Indeed,  ma'am,"  said  Sarah,  "  insinuations  is  far 
from  me.  But  it's  a  hint  here  and  a  hint  there,  and 
never  a  straight  word  that  can  be  taken  up  plain.  Is 
your  son  high  up  in  the  world  or  is  he  not?  Answer 
me  that  and  I'll  have  no  more  to  say." 

"  Yes,  he  is,"  replied  Mrs.  Meaking,  goaded  towards 
her  destruction.  "  And  as  you  take  such  a  kind  interest 
in  me  and  mine,  I'll  tell  you  what  I've  told  no-one  else, 
and  wish  to  go  no  further.  Montague  is  an  officer  in 
the  Army,  with  a  scarlet  uniform  and  gold  lace  in 
plenty,  riding  on  a  prancing  horse,  the  same  as  the 
Honourable  Captain  Murthley,  Lord  Dibdin's  son,  only 
higher.  And  his  clothes,  whether  by  day  or  night,  are 
a  sight  to  see,  dressing  for  his  dinner  every  evening,  as 
is  the  custom  with  the  high-born  gentry,  and  nobody 
looking  more  noble  and  gallant.  And  whether  he'll  be 
a  lord  himself  some  day  or  whether  he  won't,  and — 
and  nothing  will  induce  me  to  let  that  out,  being  under 
an  oath  of  secrecy — there's  titled  ladies  in  love  with 
him  in  plenty,  and  hanging  on  his  word." 

"  What,  him  and  his  red  hair !  "  chuckled  old  Sarah. 

"  His  hair,  Mrs.  Wellbeloved,  is  no  concern  of  yours ; 
and  let  me  tell  you  that  what  is  called  red  hair  by  the 
vulgar  is  much  thought  of  and  named  auburn  by  those 
that  know  about  such  things.  And  now  I've  told  you, 
but  I  don't  wish  it  to  be  named  elsewhere." 

"  Far  be  it  from  me,  ma'am,  to  abuse  confidence  so 
kindly  placed,"  said  Sarah,  now  in  a  state  of  placid 
enjoyment  that  could  hardly  have  been  increased. 
"  Now  you've  chosen  to  speak  straight  out  your  words 


184  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

will  be  respected.  I'm  willing  to  own  I'm  surprised. 
It  was  my  belief  that  Mr.  Montague  was  likely,  after 
all,  to  be  nothing  better  than  a  shop-boy;  but  as  you 
declare " 

"  Shop-boy,  indeed ! "  interrupted  Mrs.  Meaking, 
now  warming  to  her  work.  "  As  I've  told  you  so  much, 
Mrs.  Wellbeloved,  and  it  won't  go  any  further,  for 
fear  of  me  being  accused  of  boasting,  which  I'd  scorn 
to  do,  I'll  tell  you  more.  My  son  is  waited  on  hand 
and  foot  by  two  valleys,  and  wouldn't  be  allowed  to 
do  so  much  for  himself  as  button  his  own  waistcoat, 
if  he  wished  in  his  position  to  demean  himself  by  so 
doing.  Walk  he  never  does,  but  rides  in  carriages  and 
on  horses,  if  it's  only  so  little  as  to  cross  the  street 
from  one  lord's  house  to  another.  And  I  can  tell  you 
that  it's  many  the  lord  he'd  scorn  to  associate  himself 
with  now." 

"  To  think  of  that !  "  ejaculated  Sarah.  "  And  you 
settin'  here  quite  humble,  sewing  a  gusset  and  talking 
familiar  to  a  servant !  " 

"  Oh,  it  won't  be  for  long,  Mrs.  Wellbeloved. 
There  are  family  circumstances  I  needn't  go  into  which 
prevent  me  taking  my  place  at  present,  but  when  my 
Montague  comes  home  to  take  me  to  where  servants'll 
tremble  at  my  slightest  word,  and  lords  and  ladies  will, 
be  my  daily  companions — Lor !  what's  that  ?  " 

A  loud  knock  on  the  cottage  door  had  startled  both 
ladies.  Mrs.  Meaking  sat  in  an  attitude  of  expecta- 
tion and  old  Sarah  seemed  to  be  taken  with  a  fit  of 
subdued  but  uncontrollable  mirth. 

The  knock  was  repeated,  and  Mrs.  Meaking  rose  to 
attend  to  it.  She  walked  past  her  visitor  to  the  door, 
opened  it,  and  fell  back  with  a  startled  cry.  Then  she 
rushed  to  the  embrace  of  her  son,  who  stood  in  the  door- 


MEAKING  COMES  HOME  185 

way,  with  his  flaming  red  hair,  unsubdued  by  time  and 
anointment,  surmounting  a  florid  face,  the  colour  of 
which  was  heightened  by  his  fast  walk  of  seven  miles. 

"  My  boy !  my  boy !  Come  back  to  me  at  last ! " 
sobbed  Mrs.  Meaking  on  his  shoulder.  "  I've  stood  up 
against  them  all;  but  many's  the  time  my  heart  has 
ached  for  you." 

"  There,  Mother,  that's  ah1  right,"  said  John,  pat- 
ting her  on  the  shoulder.  "  Let's  come  in  and  sit  down 
for  a  bit,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  I'm  glad 
enough  to  see  you  again  in  the  old  place,  and — Why, 
who's  this?  Mrs.  Wellbeloved!  How  do  you  do? 
Been  having  a  gossip  with  Mother,  eh?  That's  quite 
like  old  times.  Well,  it  does  me  good  to  see  one  of  the 
old  faces." 

Old  Sarah's  hour  of  triumph  had  come,  but  somehow 
she  did  not  quite  see  her  way  to  taking  advantage  of 
it.  John  Meaking  in  a  blue  serge  suit  considerably 
worn,  and  a  pair  of  London  button  boots  very  dirty 
and  rather  down  at  heel,  looked  as  little  as  possible 
like  a  cavalry  officer  with  two  valets  in  his  employ,  but 
he  did  look  like  a  strong  self-reliant  young  man  who 
might  be  disposed  to  take  amiss  any  slight  to  his  mother ; 
and  she,  for  her  part,  seemed  to  have  forgotten  for 
the  moment  the  flights  of  imagination  which  she  had 
recently  soared,  and  was  sitting  on  a  chair  beaming 
at  her  offspring,  and  intermittently  dabbing  at  her 
eyes  with  a  pocket  handkerchief. 

"  Well,  I'm  pleased  enough  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Well- 
beloved,"  proceeded  John,  as  Sarah  showed  no  signs  of 
taking  her  departure,  "  but  you'll  understand  that 
Mother  and  me  has  a  good  deal  to  talk  over.  So  we'll 
say  good-bye  now,  and  we  shall  be  very  pleased  to  see 
you  again  later  on." 


186  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

Old  Sarah  found  her  feet  and  her  tongue  at  the  same 
time.  "  Far  be  it  from  me,"  she  sajd,  "  to  stay  where 
I'm  not  wanted.  I  s'pose  you  left  your  prancing  horse 
outside,  Mr.  Montague, — or  p'raps  I  should  say  Cap- 
tain Montague.  And  your  two  valleys  is  looking  after 
your  other  suit,  which  if  it's  anything  like  the  one 
you're  wearing'll  give  'em  plenty  o'  work  to  do.  An' 
the  ladies  of  title  that  fall  down  and  worships  your 
graven  image — they'll  likely  be  on  view  in  a  day  or  two 
when  the  house  is  cleaned  up  a  bit." 

John,  after  a  side  glance  at  his  mother,  looked  her 
straight  in  the  face  till  she  had  finished.  Then  he  said, 
"  Oh,  you're  here  to  make  mischief,  are  you?  I  might 
ha'  known  it  if  I'd  remembered  what  you  were  like 
before, — a  spiteful  old  busybody,  always  poking  your 
nose  into  other  people's  affairs.  You  can  be  off  out 
of  this  house,  and  you  needn't  put  yourself  out  of  the 
way  to  come  back  again." 

"  Hee,  hee !  "  giggled  old  Sarah.  "  Shown  the  door 
by  a  shop-boy,  when  I  was  told  to  expect  a  lord  in 
scarlet  and  gold!  That's  as  good  a  joke  as  ever  I 
heard,  and  it  won't  lose  in  the  telling  neither.  Good- 
afternoon,  my  lord  !  6?ooJ-afternoon,  my  lady  !  Don't 
trouble  to  ring  for  the  footman  to  show  me  out. 
I'll " 

But  here  she  was  interrupted  by  a  loud  and  somewhat 
hysterical  outburst  of  laughter  from  Mrs.  Meaking, 
and  paused  in  astonishment  as  that  lady  rocked  to 
and  fro  in  her  chair,  apparently  convulsed  with 
merriment. 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  good  joke,"  she  crowed.  "  One  of  the 
best  jokes  I've  ever  heard,  and  it's  a  joke  against  you, 
old  Sarah  Wellbeloved,  and  not  against  me.  She  came 
jn  here,  Montague,  prying  and  peering  and  trying  to 


MEAKING  COMES  HOME  187 

lead  me  on.  So  I  let  her  lead  me  on,  and  filled  her  up 
with  nonsense  which  she  sucked  in  like  mother's  milk. 
Ho,  ho,  ho  !  'Twas  a  complete  take  in.  Ho !  Ho !  " 
Her  laughter  suddenly  ceased.  "  Spiteful  old  cat !  " 
she  said  with  a  glare  of  fury.  "  Get  out  of  my  house, 
and  don't  you  ever  put  your  face  inside  my  door 
again." 

She  advanced  upon  the  old  woman  with  a  threaten- 
ing mien,  but  Sarah  stood  her  ground.  "  You  may  tell 
that  story  to  them  as'll  believe  it,"  she  said.  "  Oh, 
I'm  going.  You  needn't  fly  out  like  a  fury.  I  came  in 
here  for  a  quiet  little  talk,  not  knowing  anything  more 
about  where  the  lad  was  than  the  babe  unborn.  Not 
a  word  did  I  believe  of  what  I  was  told,  but  I  was 
meant  to  believe  it,  and  may  you  be  forgiven  for  the 
sin  of  lying  that  set  on  your  conscience." 

She  turned  to  go,  and  came  face  to  face  with  Job 
Wilding,  who  stood  just  inside  the  door.  "  So  the 
boy's  come  home,  has  he?"  said  Job.  "Time  enough 
too,  young  varmint!  I  s'pose  Mrs.  Wellbeloved  come 
to  warn  you  about  it,  eh?  Master  Richard,  'e 
told  'er  all  about  'im  yesterday,  an'  what  'e  was 
doing." 

John  Meaking  suddenly  flamed  into  fury.  "  Get  out 
of  the  house,  both  of  you,"  he  shouted.  "  Sarah  Well- 
beloved,  you're  a  wicked,  lying  old  woman,  as  full  of 
malice  as  the  devil ;  and  you,  Job  Wilding,  I've  felt 
your  hand  many  a  time  when  I  was  a  boy,  but  I'm  a 
man  now,  and  if  I  catch  you  worrying  my  mother  with 
your  evil  tongue  you'll  feel  the  weight  of  mine." 

"  'Ere,  don't  you  come  the  master  over  me,  young 
Meaking,"  returned  Job,  "  'cos  I  won't  put  up  with  it. 
I  come  here  to  stop  this  old  clap- jacket  making  mis- 
chief, being  asked  for  to  do  it  by  Master  Richard." 


188  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  You  came  here  to  enjoy  the  mischief  she'd  tried  to 
make,"  said  John.  "  Outside  the  door,  or  I'll  kick  you 
out." 

Job  cast  an  indecisive  glance  around,  and  departed 
without  another  word,  having  the  door  slammed  to  upon 
his  heels.  Old  Sarah  had  already  scuttled  down  the 
garden  path  and  was  on  her  way  back  to  the  vicarage, 
pushing  along  the  wet  road  like  a  rusty  black  beetle. 
John  Meaking  and  his  mother  were  left  alone  to  balance 
accounts  of  relationship  and  to  start  afresh. 

When  Richard  heard  what  had  happened  he  first 
sought  an  interview  with  Job,  and  upbraided  him  in 
no  measured  terms  for  his  duplicity.  Job  was  taciturn 
and  impenitent.  "  Don't  you  come  a-worritin'  o'  me," 
was  the  burden  of  his  defence,  but  his  last  words  showed 
that  his  late  experience  had  not  left  him  unaffected. 
"  If  that  red-headed  young  badger  lays  a  finger  on 
me,"  he  growled,  "  I'll  have  the  law  on  'im." 

Then  Richard  went  up  to  the  nursery,  and  stood  in 
front  of  old  Sarah  like  an  accusing  spirit. 

"  I've  heard  about  the  mean  trick  you've  played,"  he 
said.  "  You  did  your  best  to  deceive  me,  and  you  lied 
to  Mrs.  Meaking.  I'll  just  tell  you  this:  I  don't  want 
to  hear  anything  more  from  you  about  religion  as  long 
as  I  live.  I'm  sick  of  it.  It's  all  cant  and  hypocrisy 
with  you.  You  haven't  got  an  ounce  of  true  religion 
in  your  body.  You're  full  of  malice  and  uncharitable- 
ness.  What  you've  done  I  call  real  wickedness,  and 
I'm  glad  I've  found  you  out  at  last." 

Sarah  glared  at  him  like  a  baffled  old  witch.  She 
had  plenty  to  say,  but  he  was  out  of  the  room  before 
she  could  begin  to  say  it.  "  The  idea !  "  she  burst  out, 
when  he  had  shut  the  door  behind  him.  "  And  me  a 


MEAKING  COMES  HOME  189 

converted  soul,  and  free  from  sin  these  fifty  years ! 
The  impudence!  I'll  tell  the  master  o'  you,  Master 
Richard,  and  a  fine  to-do  you'll  find  you've  made  of 
it." 

But,  on  consideration,  she  did  not  tell  the  master. 


CHAPTER    XV 

RICHARD  READS  AND  RIDES 

MR.  GANNETT,  the  bibliophile,  had  not  enjoyed  the 
services  of  his  new  assistant  many  days  before  it  began 
to  pierce  even  his  vellum-and-parchment-protected 
brain  that  he  had  cause  to  congratulate  himself.  When 
John  Meaking  had  been  in  his  employment  for  a  week 
the  following  changes  in  his  surroundings  had  taken 
place.  The  dirty  and  indolent  old  harridan  who  had 
neglected  him  and  his  house  for  close  upon  thirty  years 
had  disappeared,  and  only  the  faint  echoes  of  the 
cataclysm  that  accompanied  her  enforced  departure 
had  reached  his  ears.  In  fact,  he  had  only  been  asked 
for  authority  to  get  rid  of  her  and  for  money  to  pay 
her  dues,  and  had  been  protected  against  all  subsequent 
unpleasantness  or  attack.  In  her  place  reigned  a  clean, 
tidy  body,  who  cooked  decent  food,  brushed  and  mended 
Mr.  Gannett's  scanty  wardrobe,  cleaned  out  the  house 
from  top  to  bottom,  and  never  got  in  the  way.  Mr. 
Gannett  had  hitherto  connected  any  slight  cleaning 
operations  that  might  be  considered  obligatory  with  a 
period  of  the  utmost  discomfort  and  inconvenience  to 
his  habits  and  his  business,  and  had  come  to  look  upon 
cleanliness  as  a  terrible,  if  necessary,  trial,  to  be 
avoided  if  possible,  and  always  to  be  greatly  dreaded. 
He  now  got  the  benefits  of  the  operation  without  its 
drawbacks  and  found  the  change  not  unpleasant. 

Again,  with  very  little   assistance  from  himself  his 
whole  stock  had  been  reduced  to  some  sort  of  order; 

190 


RICHARD  READS  AND  RIDES          191 

and  though  it  was  not  altogether  the  order  that  he  him- 
self would  have  chosen  if  he  could  have  brought  himself 
to  create  it,  it  was  found  to  be  very  convenient  to  know 
what  books  he  possessed,  and  where  they  were  to  be 
fqund.  Furthermore,  all  trouble  over  serving  cus- 
tomers who  came  to  buy  cheap  or  modern  books,  such 
as  he  despised  but  seemed  to  be  always  acquiring,  was 
taken  off  his  hands,  and  he  himself  was  left  free  to  talk 
to  his  more  intelligent  clients  and  to  devote  his  whole 
time  to  preparing  the  best  catalogue  he  had  yet  sent 
out.  His  assistant  even  spent  his  evenings  in  copying 
out  the  entries  Mr.  Gannett  had  made  during  the  day, 
relieving  him  of  the  nightmare  of  prospective  proof- 
correcting,  which  by  reason  of  his  crabbed  handwriting 
had  been  the  one  thing  that  had  spoilt  his  enjoyment 
in  those  masterpieces  in  the  past.  "  I  won't  deceive 
you,  Mr.  Gannett,"  Meaking  had  said  in  a  loud,  clear 
voice,  when  he  had  offered  to  do  this  work  of  super- 
erogation. "  I  don't  take  the  interest  in  the  books  that 
you  do,  and  I  don't  do  it  for  pleasure.  But  I  want  to 
help  you  all  I  can,  and  show  that  I'm  worth  my  pay ; 
and  I  want  to  learn  all  I  can,  so's  I  shall  know  all 
branches  of  the  business."  Mr.  Gannett  had  accepted 
his  assistance  on  this  understanding,  though  not  with- 
out a  feeling  of  disappointment  that  his  fellow  labourer 
was  unable  to  share  his  own  zest  in  an  occupation  which 
he  looked  upon  as  the  highest  form  of  pleasure  that 
life  could  afford. 

Then  Mr.  Gannett,  whom  age  and  long  years  of 
sedentary  employment,  with  only  such  sustenance  as 
could  keep  the  life  in  him,  had  robbed  of  the  capacity 
or  desire  for  many  hours  of  sleep,  had  formerly  found 
it  a  terrible  trial  to  wait  until  his  attendant  allowed 
him  to  get  up  in  the  morning  and  begin  his  day.  Now 


192  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

he  could  rise  at  whatever  time  he  liked,  and  find  John 
up  before  him  with  a  fire  and  a  cup  of  tea  ready  to 
warm  his  old  bones,  and  his  desk  cleared  for  him  to  work 
at.  Mr.  Gannett  was  accustomed  to  retire  to  rest  at 
any  time  from  one  to  three  in  the  morning,  while  John 
was  generally  snoring  in  bed  by  ten  o'clock  and  got 
even  with  him  in  that  way. 

In  fact,  no  bookseller  in  the  United  Kingdom  was 
served  by  so  diligent,  thoughtful,  capable,  and  alto- 
gether exemplary  an  assistant  as  Mr.  Gannett,  and  the 
old  man,  while  taking  most  of  the  improvement  in  his 
condition  with  unconscious  equanimity,  was  occasionally 
moved  to  congratulate  himself  upon  it.  This  sense 
of  welfare  would  come  to  him  sometimes  suddenly,  and 
whenever  it  did  so  he  would  leave  whatever  occupation 
he  was  engaged  in,  trot  over  to  where  John  was  work- 
ing, pat  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  say,  "  You're  a  good 
boy.  I'll  raise  you,"  which  was  as  near  as  he  ever  got 
to  a  spontaneous  reference  to  money  affairs. 

The  fact  that  the  takings  of  the  business  showed 
marked  advance  even  during  the  week  that  Meaking  had 
employed  himself  chiefly  in  putting  things  straight 
could  hardly  be  expected  to  afford  Mr.  Gannett  great 
satisfaction,  as  he  had  always  showed  himself  quite  in- 
different to  this  aspect  of  it.  But  it  may  be  supposed 
that  it  was  the  all-important  one  to  Meaking,  and  that 
he  would  not  be  content  without  further  changes  which 
his  employer  might  not  receive  with  such  complacency 
as  those  which  had  already  taken  place. 

Meaking  confided  some  of  his  intentions  and  ambi- 
tions to  Richard,  who,  intensely  interested  in  what  was 
going  on  in  the  shop  in  Abbey  Street,  seldom  let  a 
day  pass  without  paying  him  a  visit. 

"  I've  got  him  comfortable  now  and  pleased  with  me," 


RICHARD  READS  AND  RIDES          193 

said  Meaking,  on  the  morning  after  he  had  finally  re- 
duced the  stock  to  order  and  faced  the  world  of  book 
buyers  from  a  shop  which  offered  them  half  as  much 
attraction  again  as  it  had  ever  done  before.  "  Now 
we've  got  to  begin  to  go  ahead,  and  we're  going  ahead 
in  ways  he  won't  be  quite  so  pleased  with.  I  don't 
mind  telling  you,  Dick,  'cos  I  like  to  talk  about  these 
things  to  somebody,  and  you  won't  let  what  I  say  go 
any  further,  that  if  I  hadn't  come  here  about  when  I  did 
the  old  man  would  have  been  in  queer  street  in  a  very 
short  time.  He's  a  miser,  that's  what  he  is." 

Richard  opened  his  eyes.  "  That's  news,"  he  said. 
"  I  didn't  know  he  cared  a  bit  about  money." 

"  And  he  doesn't.  Money  isn't  the  only  thing  you 
can  hoard.  He's  a  miser  in  books.  He's  got  so  as  he 
can't  bear  to  sell  the  best  of  them.  I  couldn't  quite 
make  out  what  was  going  on  at  first.  I  knew  he'd  got 
the  reputation  of  knowing  more  about  a  certain  line 
of  books  than  anybody  in  the  country,  and  I  knew  he 
must  have  made  money  over  that,  even  if  he  drops  some 
in  unsaleable  stuff.  But  when  I  came  to  look  into  things 
— mind  this  don't  go  any  further — I  found  there  was 
hardly  anything  in  the  bank,  and  very  little  coming  in. 
Of  course  he  doesn't  spend  anything  on  himself — hardly 
as  much  as  a  labourer,  and  the  premises  belongs  to  him, 
so  where  had  the  money  gone?  I  needn't  say  that  he 
don't  keep  accounts,  but  there's  drawers  full  of  letters 
and  so  on,  and  I  worried  it  out  one  night,  when  he  was 
asleep  for  a  wonder.  What  do  you  think  I  found?  He's 
pricing  his  books  higher  than  their  market  value,  so's 
nobody'll  want  to  buy  them  from  him.  Did  you  ever  hear 
of  such  an  old  image?  I  found  it  out  for  certain,  be- 
cause there  was  a  correspondence  from  a  gentleman  who 
had  bought  a  book  at  the  catalogue  price,  high  as  it 


RICHARD  BALDOCK 

was,  and  I  saw  that  the  old  man  must  have  written  that 
the  price  in  the  catalogue  was  a  mistake,  and  he  couldn't 
let  it  go.  He  had  to,  though,  and  there  was  the  cheque 
in  the  customer's  last  letter  stowed  away  in  a  drawer 
and  never  paid  in." 

"  By  Jove !  "  said  Richard.  "  You  will  have  to  stop 
that." 

"No,  I  shan't  stop  it,"  replied  John.  "The  old 
man's  right,  only  he  don't  know  it.  That  class  of  book's 
going  up  in  value  every  day,  and  if  they  ain't  worth 
what  he  prices  'em  at  now  they  will  be  by  and  by. 
I  shall  let  him  stick  to  that  side  of  the  business  and 
work  up  the  others  so  as  he'll  have  money  to  buy.  It's 
actually  got  so  that  in  a  week  or  two,  if  he'd  gone  on 
as  he  was  doing,  he  wouldn't  have  been  able  to  buy  any 
more.  I  shall  frighten  him  with  that.  There's  a  good 
deal  to  be  got  in.  He  has  never  worried  over  accounts, 
and  if  you  don't  worry  people  they  won't  pay.  That's 
by  experience.  He  has  had  the  sense  just  to  enter 
sales  and  purchases.  That's  all  the  books  he's  kept, 
and  he's  never  cast  even  them  up.  Oh,  things  are  going 
to  be  very  different  now.  And  I'll  tell  you  one  thing 
I'm  going  to  do,  Dick,  and  I  want  you  to  help  me.  I'll 
make  it  worth  your  while.  I'm  going  to  start  a  lending 
library.  I  think  there's  scope  for  it — a  small  one. 
The  old  man  won't  like  it,  but  it'll  make  a  bit,  and  I'll 
get  a  hold  over  him  with  that." 

"  How  can  I  help  ?  "  asked  Richard. 

"  Well,  you  can  choose  the  books.  You've  gobbled  up 
about  a  dozen  I've  let  you  read  here  in  your  dinner- 
time in  less  than  a  week,  and  I  can  see  you'll  read  any- 
thing you  can  get  hold  of  so  long  as  it's  amusing.  You 
don't  seem  to  trouble  the  calf-bounds  much." 

Richard  laughed  a  little  shamefacedly.    "  I  get  plenty 


RICHARD  READS  AND  RIDES  195 

of  that  at  school,"  he  said.  "  But,  I  say,  do  you  really 
mean  it?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  I  don't  read  myself.  I  haven't  time. 
And,  of  course,  it's  the  amusing  books  that  people  want 
in  a  library.  Them  and  the  '  standards.'  You  shall 
choose  a  couple  of  hundred  volumes — novels  and  poetry 
and  such-like  to  begin  with — and  I'll  choose  the  editions 
and  get  'em  down  hot  and  new  from  the  publishers.  I 
can't  afford  to  pay  you  in  cash,  but  I  know  you'll  like 
doing  it,  and  I'll  put  you  on  the  free  list,  and  you  can 
have  first  go  of  any  book  in  the  library,  and  take  'em 
away  two  at  a  time  as  often  as  you  like.  Now,  how 
will  that  suit  you  ?  " 

Richard  made  haste  to  reply  with  delight  that  it 
would  suit  him  admirably,  and  the  bargain  was  struck. 
It  was  in  some  ways  rather  a  curious  collection  of  books 
with  which  Mr.  Gannett's  circulating  library  was  eventu- 
ally started,  for  Richard's  knowledge  of  authors  was 
not  on  a  par  with  his  voracious  appetite  for  reading. 
All  his  own  favourite  books  were,  of  course,  included, 
and  a  respectable  percentage  of  them  proved  to  be 
acceptable  reading  to  the  subscribers  to  the  library,  so 
that  his  selection  was  on  the  whole  justified.  When  it 
became  necessary  to  enlarge  the  library  and  to  infuse 
new  blood  into  it  by  buying  from  time  to  time  popular 
books  of  the  moment,  John  made  him  read  reviews  and 
publisher's  advertisements,  and,  in  fact,  made  use  of 
him  generally,  knowing  well  it  was  the  greatest  pleasure 
to  him  to  be  made  use  of  in  that  way. 

Richard  revelled  in  it.  There  comes  a  time  to  every 
boy  who  has  the  love  of  books  in  him  when  he  begins  to 
make  discoveries  and  to  plunge  with  the  keenest  joy 
into  much-trodden,  but  to  him  new  and  delightful,  paths. 
The  time  may  come  soon  or  late,  and  the  zest  may 


196  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

spread  itself  over  years,  ever  widening,  or  it  may  con- 
centrate itself  early  into  a  lifelong  pursuit  of  one 
narrow  track;  but  the  books  read  during  those  fresh 
golden  days  will  always  carry  something  of  a  glamour, 
even  if  riper  taste  has  learnt  to  reject  them. 

Here  was  a  boy  with  a  genuine  though  quite  un- 
encouraged  taste  for  literature,  and  an  insatiable  curi- 
osity about  life.  He  had  had  hardly  any  experiences 
outside  the  little  circle  that  immediately  surrounded 
his  village  home,  and  had  had  so  few  books  to  read, 
that,  until  he  was  given  the  run  of  the  fairly  well- 
stocked  library  of  his  school,  he  was  ignorant  of  even 
the  names  of  the  great  masters  of  romance.  John  Bal- 
dock,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  a  good  classical 
scholar  and  plied  a  busy  pen  in  evangelical  reviews 
and  journals,  was  illiterate.  The  masterpieces  of  Greek 
and  Latin  literature,  whose  language  he  was  so  skilful 
in  dissecting,  were  meaningless  to  him,  except  as  exer- 
cises in  syntax  or  prosody ;  of  poetry  he  knew  little  and 
cared  less,  and  on  novels,  even  the  greatest,  he  looked 
askance.  His  library,  consisting  mainly  of  old  sermons 
and  the  work  of  out-of-date  divines,  if  it  had  been  sold 
in  the  open  market,  would  have  gone  to  swell  the  pile 
of  books  such  as  Mr.  Gannett  exhibited  in  his  two- 
penny and  three-penny  trough,  and  of  books  that  might 
interest  a  boy  who  was  developing  a  thirst  for  reading 
there  were  scarcely  any. 

But  in  the  disused  drawing-room  was  a  shelf  of 
books  that  had  belonged  to  Richard's  mother,  and  al- 
most all  of  these  he  had  devoured.  He  had  read  "  David 
Copperfield  "  by  the  time  he  was  twelve,  and  had  re-read 
it  many  times  since.  Of  all  the  little  collection  this 
was  his  favourite.  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb's  "  Tales 
from  Shakespeare  "  came  next,  but  until  he  went  to 


RICHARD  READS  AND  RIDES  197 

school  he  had  never  read  a  line  of  Shakespeare  himself. 
"  Paradise  Lost "  he  waded  through  twice,  rinding 
patches  of  very  attractive  descriptive  writing  amongst 
a  mass  of  wh?,t  he  regarded  as  dry  stuff.  He  knew 
something  of  Cowper's  poems  and  Longfellow's,  and 
those  of  the  now  almost  forgotten  Kirke  White,  but 
they  hardly  stirred  the  passion  with  which  he  after- 
wards devoured  every  modern  book  of  poetry  on  which 
he  could  lay  his  hands.  The  rest  of  the  collection  was 
made  up  of  evangelical  tales  and  one  or  two  picturesque 
annuals  and  gift  books,  so  that  the  mental  sustenance 
he  drew  from  it  was  somewhat  meagre ;  but  "  David 
Copperfield  "  was  a  constant  delight,  and  the  village 
library  contained  one  or  two  of  the  "  Waverley 
Novels,"  as  well  as  "Oliver  Twist"  and  "The  Old 
Curiosity  Shop."  This  was  almost  the  extent  of  his 
reading  up  to  the  age  of  fifteen,  except  that  during 
his  short  visit  to  his  aunt  he  had  got  hold  of  Tennyson's 
poems,  and  had  been  wild  to  obtain  a  copy  for  himself 
ever  since. 

The  first  book  he  took  out  of  the  school  library  when 
he  went  to  Storbridge  was  "  The  Pickwick  Papers," 
and  the  second  was  "  Martin  Chuzzlewit,"  and  so  on 
right  through  Dickens  until  he  was  brought  up  by 
"  Little  Dorrit,"  which  he  found  dull  and  depressing 
reading,  so  he  cast  about  for  another  novelist,  and  lit 
upon  "  Pendennis."  When  he  had  finished  this  and  de- 
voured "  Vanity  Fair,"  he  was  as  keen  an  enthusiast 
on  Thackeray  as  he  had  been  on  Dickens.  Then  fol- 
lowed a  course  of  Anthony  Trollope,  with  a  check  at  the 
political  novels ;  a  week  of  absorbed  delight  over  "  Lorna 
Doone  " ;  candles  burnt  at  night  for  "  The  Moonstone  " 
and  "  The  Woman  in  White,"  and  yawns  over  two  sub- 
sequent attempted  works  of  Wilkie  Collins.  A  puzzled 


198  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

plunge  into  Meredith — he  was  only  fifteen — Miss  Brad- 
don,  Charles  Reade,  both  the  Kingsleys,  James  Payn, 
and  very  many  more,  the  great  Victorians  as  well  as  the 
small.  He  soaked  himself  in  a  sea  of  novels,  and  inter- 
spersed his  reading  with  poetry  good  and  bad,  and 
there  it  ended.  He  read  for  his  pleasure  alone,  and 
showed  no  signs  of  becoming  a  bookworm,  though,  with 
Meaking  always  at  his  elbow  and  Mr.  Gannett,  who  had 
taken  a  fancy  to  him,  occasionally  conversing  with 
him  upon  the  subject  of  which  his  thoughts  were  full, 
he  began  to  know  a  good  deal  in  a  superficial  way  about 
books  and  authors. 

Probably  there  is  no  form  of  pleasure,  however  inno- 
cent in  itself,  in  which  complete  absorption  does  not 
bring  satiety.  Richard's  orgy  of  novel-reading  lasted 
through  the  autumn  and  winter,  and  by  the  time  spring 
came  round  the  brightness  of  his  character  had  become 
a  little  tarnished.  It  was  not  possible  for  him  actually 
to  shirk  his  lessons,  because  the  preparation  for  them 
was  invariably  done  under  his  father's  eye,  and  in  school- 
time  he  worked  fairly  well.  But  zest  for  his  work  had 
departed,  and  at  the  end  of  the  Michaelmas  term  the 
rival  who  was  running  with  him  for  the  school  exhibi- 
tion, but  whom  he  had  always  hitherto  beaten,  went 
above  him.  His  father  was  very  angry.  He  had  marked 
the  slacking  effort,  but  had  not  been  able  to  put  his 
finger  on  the  cause  of  it.  Richard  confided  in  him  very 
little.  By  his  harshness  and  obstinate  self-absorption 
he  had  put  it  out  of  his  own  power  to  gain  the  boy's 
complete  confidence.  At  the  same  time  Richard  had 
never  designedly  hidden  anything  from  his  father,  and 
his  conscience  told  him  now  that  he  was  deceiving  him. 
For  he  knew  well  enough  that  if  it  were  known  that  he 
often  read  in  bed  until  the  early  hours  of  the  morning, 


RICHARD  READS  AND  RIDES  199 

that  he  hid  himself  away  somewhere  to  read  when  he 
knew  that  his  reading  openly  would  be  remarked  upon, 
and  that  he  read  novels  on  Sundays,  he  would  be  very 
severely  reprimanded  and  his  novel-reading  stopped  al- 
together. A  naturally  frank  and  open  nature  like 
Richard's  could  not  but  be  damaged  by  the  knowledge 
that  he  was  acting  secretly. 

Then,  again,  the  balance  of  his  life  was  destroyed. 
He  had  hitherto  been  out  of  doors  every  moment  in  the 
day  that  could  be  spared  from  his  lessons.  Now  he 
was  always  poring  over  a  book,  and  shutting  his  ear 
to  the  call  of  the  forest.  His  long  ride  to  and  from 
school — fourteen  miles  five  days  a  week  in  rain  or  shine 
— kept  him  physically  fit,  but  he  grew  unhappy,  for  the 
reading  became  after  a  time  an  obsession,  and  he  read 
when  he  would  much  rather  have  been  out  of  doors. 
At  the  end  of  the  winter  he  felt  somehow  that  a  season 
had  gone  by  of  which  he  had  missed  the  pleasure.  He 
had  put  himself  out  of  tune  with  nature.  The  forest 
had  called  him  again  and  again,  and  he  had  refused  to 
listen  to  the  summons. 

Meaking  gave  him  a  warning  word.  Meaking  had 
plans  in  his  head,  plans  which  concerned  Richard  him- 
self, but  he  had  not  yet  disclosed  them.  But  he  kept 
a  watchful  eye  on  his  now  constant  companion. 

"  I've  got  a  day  off  to-morrow,"  he  said  one  Friday 
afternoon  in  the  middle  of  a  glorious  February.  "  It's 
the  first  I've  had,  'cept  Christmas,  since  I've  been  here. 
I  didn't  mean  to  ask  for  one  for  six  months,  but  this 
weather !  I  can't  put  it  off  any  longer.  Lend  me  a 
pony,  Dick,  and  we'll  have  a  long  ride  through  the 
forest.  I'll  get  over  by  nine  o'clock,  after  I've  seen  to 
the  old  man." 

Richard  looked  up  to  a  sky  of  soft  cloudless  blue. 


ZOO  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  I  don't  know  that  the  weather's  going  to  last,"  he 
said. 

*'  Oh,  rot.    You  know  better  than  that." 

"  I  don't  think  I  want  to  ride  the  whole  day  long. 
I  get  about  enough  riding  on  the  rest  of  the  week." 

"  You  never  could  get  enough  before.  And  think 
of  the  forest  on  a  day  like  this !  The  fact  is  you  want 
to  mug  indoors  with  a  book.  You're  overdoing  it,  and 
that's  the  truth.  It  isn't  as  if  it  was  leading  to  any- 
thing like  it  might  be  with  me,  if  I  spent  my  spare 
time  in  reading  books — good  books.  You're  filling  your- 
self up  with  trashy  novels,  just  to  amuse  yourself." 

"  I  don't  read  trashy  novels.  I'm  reading  the  best 
novels  that  were  ever  written." 

"  Trash  as  well.  And  I  don't  care  if  they  were  all 
good  ones.  You're  overdoing  it.  Eat  as  much  as  you 
want,  but  don't  give  yourself  a  stomach-ache.  That's 
one  of  my  mottoes." 

"  It's  a  precious  poor  one." 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  isn't  one  of  my  best.  Anyway, 
it  applies  to  you.  Look  at  the  old  man.  It's  books 
with  him,  and  nothing  but  books.  I  don't  suppose  he 
knows  the  difference  between  an  oak  and  a  beech.  He 
don't  want  to.  You  wouldn't  want  to  grow  like  him." 

"  Of  course  not.     You're  talking  nonsense." 

"  I'm  not.  Look  at  me.  Grow  all  round,  that's  one 
of  my  mottoes.  That's  why  I've  come  away  from  Lon- 
don, where  everybody  wants  to  get  to,  and  settled  down 
here  in  the  country.  I  tell  you  it's  something  worth 
having — a  love  for  the  country — and  knowing  it.  I'm 
not  going  to  chuck  away  a  thing  like  that.  It's  a  pos- 
session, and  one  you  can't  buy.  You've  got  it,  per- 
haps more  than  me.  And  you're  chucking  it  away.  At 
least,  you're  wasting  it." 


RICHARD  READS  AND  RIDES  201 

"  Well,  I'll  come  with  you  to-morrow,  and  I'll  lend 
you  a  pony,  but  we  shall  have  to  take  it  easy.  Tommy's 
a  trifle  stale." 

"  I  don't  mind  that.  We'll  walk  'em  as  much  as 
you  like.  I  only  want  to  get  into  the  forest.  We'll  ride 
through  Wood  Hinton  and  past  Denham  enclosure  and 
Brackley  Bog  to  Exton,  and  I'll  stand  a  lunch  at  the 
hotel.  We'll  make  a  day  of  it.  I'll  turn  up  at 
nine." 

Although  he  would  have  been  ashamed  to  acknowl- 
edge it,  this  was  the  first  whole  day  Richard  had  spent 
afield  since  early  the  previous  autumn,  and  he  enjoyed 
it  exceedingly.  They  struck  right  into  the  heart  of  the 
forest  directly  they  got  out  of  the  village,  and  rode 
by  little-frequented  tracks  for  mile  after  mile  without 
touching  a  metalled  road.  The  wet  rides  were  bright 
green  under  the  heavenly  blue,  the  hollies  glistened  be- 
tween the  tree-trunks  standing  on  their  red  carpet 
underneath  the  purpling  branches  of  oak  and  beech. 
Primrose  leaves,  with  here  and  there  a  pale  early  flower, 
tufted  the  borders  of  the  paths.  The  sweetness  of 
spring  was  abroad.  The  wet,  odorous  soil,  the  swelling 
buds,  the  birds  in  brake  and  thicket,  the  warm  sun,  the 
fresh,  soft  air,  were  all  eloquent  of  it.  Meaking,  with 
town  and  shop  and  strenuous  ambition  pushed  clean 
away  from  him,  became  bucolic,  the  born  woodlander, 
contented  with  the  day,  careless  of  the  future,  part  of 
the  world  of  nature  around  him,  breathing  and  growing 
with  it,  rejoicing  under  the  same  influences  of  warmth 
and  freshness  and  bursting  life.  He  shouted  for  joy  as 
he  rode  along.  He  had  been  faithful  to  the  forest ;  there 
had  been  nothing  in  his  life  to  resist  its  influences.  He 
could  come  back  to  it  and  be  received  as  an  integral  part 
of  its  stirring  life,  feel  the  joy  of  it  in  his  very  bones, 


•        RICHARD  BALDOCK 

with  never  a  jarring  thought  of  the  outside  world  to 
disturb  his  emotions. 

Richard  had  the  freedom  of  the  forest  too,  but  he  felt 
dimly  that  he  had  been  misusing  it.  Even  now  as  he 
rode  he  must  be  trying  to  fit  in  the  sensations  which 
had  grown  up  with  him  to  those  he  had  lately  experi- 
enced. He  tried  to  find  words,  phrases,  rhymes,  to  see 
at  second  hand  what  had  always  been  familiar  to  his 
own  eyes.  "  Hang  your  poetry  \  "  said  Meaking,  when 
he  had  spouted  a  few  lines  from  his  then  favourite. 
"We  don't  want  to  hear  what  people  say  about  it; 
we've  got  it." 

They  came  about  mid-day  to  the  village  of  Exton, 
stabled  their  ponies,  wandered  about  the  ruins  of  the 
noble  abbey,  and  stood  on  the  bridge  underneath  which 
the  water  flowed  into  the  broad  tidal  river.  The  tide 
was  high,  and  the  great  expanse  of  water,  full  up  to 
the  tree-lined  shores,  lay  like  a  quiet  lake  in  the  Feb- 
ruary sunshine.  Two  swans  flew  over  their  heads  on 
their  way  down  the  river,  cleaving  the  air  with  slow 
beats  of  their  wings,  making  a  kind  of  hoarse  music 
which  could  be  heard  as  long  as  they  were  in  sight. 
White  pigeons  sunned  themselves  on  the  roof  of  the  mill- 
house  or  circled  round  the  chimneys.  The  clock  on 
the  gate-house  of  the  abbey  chimed  the  hour. 

"  What  a  beautiful  place  this  is,"  said  Richard.  "  I 
should  like  to  live  here." 

"Yes,  it's  a  beautiful  place,"  replied  Meaking;  "as 
beautiful  a  place  as  there  is  in  England.  But  it's 
feudal.  It  isn't  quite  the  forest." 

"  You're  crazy  on  the  forest." 

"  You  used  to  be,  and  you  will  be  again  when  you've 
come  to  your  senses.  Now  we'll  go  and  have  some  lunch 
and  get  back  again." 


RICHARD  READS  AND  RIDES          203  I 

They  rode  back  along  the  road,  through  the  woods 
and  across  the  heaths,  and  reached  Beechurst  at  twi- 
light. They  walked  their  ponies  for  the  last  few  miles, 
and  neither  of  them  had  spoken  for  some  time,  until 
just  as  they  were  nearing  the  village,  Meaking  said: 
"  Well,  this  has  been  the  happiest  day  I've  had  for  a 
long  time.  I  hope  we  shall  have  more  like  it  together. 
But  I'd  like  to  say  something  to  you,  Dick.  We're 
friends,  and  you  won't  take  it  amiss." 

"  You're  going  to  say  that  I  read  too  many  novels 
and  too  much  poetry,"  said  Richard.  "  You've  said  it 
before,  and  I  don't  particularly  want  to  hear  it  again." 

"  I  wasn't  going  to  say  exactly  that,  though  it's 
true.  It's  partly  my  fault.  I  was  wrong  to  get  you  to 
help  me  with  the  library.  It's  my  work,  but  you've 
got  other  things  to  do  at  present,  and  it  isn't  fair  either 
to  your  father  or  yourself  to  take  you  from  them. 
What  I  want  to  say  is  this:  You're  not  working  on  a 
plan;  I  mean  you're  not  working  towards  anything. 
Of  course  you're  young,  and  perhaps  you  don't  see  the 
importance  of  it  yet.  I'm  young,  too,  and  because  I  do 
see  the  importance  of  it  I'm  on  the  way  to  success.  Now 
I  know  what's  in  store  for  you.  I  don't  believe  you've 
ever  thought  about  it  at  all.  You've  taken  it  for 
granted,  and  you've  got  a  good  many  years  before  you 
at  school  and  at  college — pleasant  years — before  you've 
got  to  take  up  your  work.  I'm  not  saying  anything 
against  being  a  parson.  It's  a  good  enough  life  for 
anybody  who's  suited  for  it  and  goes  into  it  with  his 
eyes  open.  Some  people  say  it's  the  best  life.  But  I 
don't  think  it  is,  except,  perhaps,  for  a  very  few. 
Anyhow,  it's  the  worst  life  in  the  world  for  a  man  who 
takes  it  up  only  as  an  occupation  and  a  means  of  get- 
ting a  livelihood ;  I'm  sure  of  that.  He's  cut  off  from 


204  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

natural  ambition,  and  he  just  becomes  a  vegetable — a 
canting  vegetable.  It  must  hurt  his  character  in  the 
long  run.  Now,  it  may  be  the  right  thing  for  you,  but 
I  do  hope  you'll  make  certain  that  it  is  before  you  take 
it  on.  Of  course  I  know  you're  as  good  as  gold,  a  jolly 
sight  cleaner  minded  than  most  fellows  who  are  being 
trained  for  the  Church;  and  that's  just  why  it  will  hurt 
you  more  than  it  would  them  if  you  went  into  it  with- 
•  out  seriously  thinking  what  it  meant,  and  feeling  that 
you  couldn't  possibly  do  anything  else.  That's  how  it 
ought  to  strike  a  man  going  into  the  Church,  I  think. 
You  won't  misunderstand  me  and  think  I'm  a  meddler 
for  saying  this,  will  you?" 

"  No,  old  chap,"  replied  Richard ;  "  it's  very  good  of 
you.  It's  quite  true  that  I  haven't  thought  much  about 
it  yet ;  there's  plenty  of  time.  Of  course  I  want  to  go  to 
Oxford.  I  don't  know  whether  father  would  let  me  if 
he  didn't  mean  me  to  take  orders  afterwards." 

"  Ah,"  said  Meaking,  significantly.  "  Well,  I  see  it 
isn't  time  to  say  more  about  it  at  present ;  but  you  take 
my  advice,  Dick,  and  don't  let  yourself  drift.  When 
you're  running  a  race  keep  your  eyes  on  the  winning- 
post;  that's  one  of  my  mottoes." 

Richard  laughed  suddenly.  "  Work  with  an  object," 
he  said. 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Meaking ;  "  but  what  is  there 
to  laugh  at?"  ^ 

"  Oh,  nothing.  It  was  the  advice  given  me  by  another 
friend." 

"  Very  good  advice,  too.  You  keep  it  in  mind,  and 
you  won't  go  far  wrong.  And  now  I'll  be  getting  on  to 
mother's.  Good-bye,  old  fellow.  We've  had  a  jolly 
day." 


CHAPTER    XVI 

A  FAIRY  OF  THE  FOREST 

A  MHJS  from  the  village  on  the  road  which  Richard 
traversed  twice  a  day  on  his  way  to  school  lay 
Beechurst  Hall,  an  Elizabethan  house  of  great  beauty, 
with  high-pitched  roof  and  great  chimney-stacks,  its 
windows  looking  across  a  formal  garden  divided  from 
the  road  only  by  a  small  fence,  to  a  park-like  rise.  The 
house  had  lain  empty  ever  since  Richard  could  remem- 
ber, but  it  had  been  kept  in  good  repair  and  would  have 
been  ready  at  any  time  for  the  occupancy  of  its  owner. 
An  old  couple  looked  after  it  and  jealously  guarded  its 
privacy.  Richard  had  felt  some  curiosity  from  time  to 
time  as  to  its  interior,  but  had  never  succeeded  in  get- 
ting inside  its  doors.  There  was  no  temptation  to  tres- 
pass in  the  gardens,  which  were  mostly  open  to  the 
roads,  and  were  kept  in  rough  order  by  the  old  care- 
taker and  a  boy  from  the  village.  Lacking  its  human 
soul  the  house  had  passed  away  from  all  connection 
with  the  village  and  was  as  little  regarded  by  the  in- 
habitants as  if  it  had  never  been  built,  though  in  past 
years  it  had  passed  through  troublous  times  and  had 
left  its  mark  upon  history.  The  foresters  and  villagers 
of  Beechurst  passed  it  without  so  much  as  a  turn  of 
the  head,  and  had  nothing  to  say  of  it  to  inquiring 
visitors,  except  that  it  belonged  to  Squire  Ventrey, 
who  lived  in  foreign  parts. 

One  day,  about  a  month  after  his  expedition  with 
Meaking,  Richard  glanced  at  the  Hall  as  he  rode  by  and 

305 


206  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

saw  signs  of  unusual  activity  about  it.  Doors  and  win- 
dows were  open  and  chimneys  smoking.  A  builder's 
cart  stood  on  the  gravel,  and  one  or  two  workmen  were 
busy  about  it.  A  little  farther  along  the  road  he  met 
the  builder  himself,  a  Storbridge  man  whom  he  knew, 
driving  towards  the  house,  and  reined  up  his  pony  to 
receive  information. 

"  Mornin',  Master  Baldock,"  said  the  builder. 
"  Great  doings  at  the  Hall.  Squire's  coming  back  at 
Easter,  and  I've  got  to  get  the  whole  place  in  order  in 
less  than  a  month.  Had  to  throw  over  another  job  for 
it.  I  must  be  getting  on." 

When  Richard  returned  home  that  evening  he  found 
excitement  reigning  in  Beechurst.  Even  the  Vicar  was 
not  wholly  free  from  it.  Richard  ventured  to  make 
inquiries  of  him  as  they  sat  together  at  their  evening 
meal.  But  John  Baldock  objected  to  answering  ques- 
tions. The  only  way  of  getting  information  out  of  him 
was  to  feign  indifference  towards  the  subject  on  which 
he  had  it  to  impart,  and  Richard,  was  too  interested 
to  take  that  course  in  this  instance. 

"  You  will  know  all  in  good  time,"  was  the  Vicar's 
irritating  answer  to  his  inquiry.  "  Curiosity  about 
other  people's  affairs  is  a  temptation  to  be  guarded 
against." 

"  I  don't  want  to  know  anything  about  Mr.  Ven- 
trey's  affairs,  father,"  replied  Richard.  "  I  only  asked 
you  about  him.  If  he  is  coming  to  live  here  it  is  inter- 
esting to  us." 

"  You  are  far  too  interested  in  carnal  matters,  Rich- 
ard," said  his  father.  "  I  wish  you  would  try  to  realize 
that  we  have  not  here  an  abiding  city.  We  are  like 
wayfarers  passing  through  a  street  on  our  way  home." 

"  But  the  wayfarer  might  be  rather  interested  in  the 


A  FAIRY  OF  THE  FOREST  207 

people  who  lived  in  the  street.  Especially  if  it  took  him 
seventy  or  eighty  years  to  pass  through  it." 

"That  is  an  impertinent  speech,  Richard,  as  well  as 
an  irreligious  one.  You  may  leave  the  table.  I  do  not 
wish  for  your  company  if  you  cannot  behave  yourself." 

Richard,  who  had  nearly  finished  his  tea,  was  not 
sorry  to  be  dismissed.  He  thought  he  would  be  able  to 
extract  rather  more  information  from  Sarah. 

Sarah  proved  to  be  quite  willing  to  impart  such  as 
she  possessed.  "  Squire  Ventrey,"  she  said,  "  has  got 
tired  of  living  in  foreign  parts,  as  well  he  may.  It's  a 
matter  of  over  twenty  years  since  the  Hall  was  left 
him,  and  it's  my  ielief  he  never  so  much  as  set  foot  in 
it,  more's  the  shame  for  preferring  the  company  of  them 
godless  Frenchmen  to  honest  English  folk.  He's  old 
in  years  and  I  make  no  doubt  old  in  sin,  for  I'm  told 
he's  a  Roman  Catholic;  and  I  s'pose  now  we  shall  have 
them  there  dirty  priests  skulking  about  the  place  seek- 
ing to  devour,  and  the  worst  terrors  of  the  Imposition. 
A  sin  and  a  shame  it  is,  I  say,  that  such  things  should 
be  allowed  in  a  Christian  country,  and  if  the  people  of 
this  place  ain't  all  in  a  state  o'  grace — which  none 
knows  better  than  me  is  the  case,  and  sorry  I  am  for 
it,  and  wrestling  in  prayer  night  and  day  that  judg- 
ment mayn't  fall  on  'em,  which  I  shouldn't  be  sur- 
prised if  it  did  wi'  fire  and  brimstone  in  a  way  they 
won't  like — all  the  more  reason  why  they  shouldn't  be 
led  further  astray,  poor  lost  lambs,  but  some  of  'em 
more  like  wolves  to  look  at,  it  seems  to  me." 

"  Well,  he's  an  old  man  and  a  Roman  Catholic. 
What  else?  Is  there  a  Mrs.  Ventrey,  or  any  sons  and 
daughters?  " 

"  Mrs.  Ventrey's  been  dead  and  finding  out  her  mis- 
Jakes  this  many  years.  I've  heard  tell  of  no  sons,  but 


208  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

there's  a  young  lady.  The  orders  is  to  paint  all  the 
woodwork  in  two  rooms  white  for  her,  and  furniture's  to 
be  sent  down  specially.  A  mincing  baggage,  I  make 
no  doubt,  with  airs  and  graces,  poor  benighted  Papist, 
and  her  mind  set  on  luxury  and  vanity." 

"  Sweet,  charitable  soul  you  are,  Sarah  dear !  How 
old  is  she?  " 

"  Not  being  told,  I  can't  say  for  certain.  But  Squire 
Ventrey's  seventy  if  he's  a  day,  so  she's  no  chicken. 
Paints  her  face  most  prob'ly,  as  is  the  custom  in 
heathen  countries,  and  tries  to  look  like  an  innocent. 
She  and  her  white  painted  rooms!  Bah!  Go  along!" 

"  Well,  there's  an  old  gentleman  and  his  daughter. 
It  doesn't  sound  very  lively.  Have  you  ferreted  out 
anything  else  ?  " 

"  I'll  thank  you  not  to  use  such  words  to  me,  Master 
Richard,  which  it's  well  known  that  Mrs.  Biddle  up 
at  the  Hall  is  friendly  with  me,  where  others  she  scorns, 
and  I  had  occasion  to  pay  her  a  visit  this  afternoon." 

"  Of  course  you  had.    What  did  she  tell  you?  " 

"  There's  servants  coming  down  from  London  when 
the  workmen  is  out  of  the  house.  A  pack  of  them — 
trollopin'  hussies !  There's  to  be  a  great  man  to  spoil 
their  food  for  them,  if  you  please.  Mrs.  Biddle,  whose 
niece  is  cook  to  a  titled  family,  isn't  good  enough  for 
them.  Of  course  not ! — a  respectable  woman  who's  no 
patience  with  foreign  ways  and  wouldn't  drop  a  curtsey 
to  a  priest,  not  if  he  was  to  blight  her  with  a  stroke  for 
it.  She  and  Biddle's  to  live  in  the  lodge,  I'll  trouble 
you;  them  as  has  had  the  Hall  for  over  twenty  years, 
same  as  if  it  was  their  own,  you  might  say.  Oh,  I've 
no  patience  with  such  goings  on." 

"  Are  they  going  to  have  any  horses?" 

"  Oh,  horses !     Yes,     Camels  too,  I  make  no  doubt, 


A  FAIRY  OF  THE  FOREST  209 

and  dromedaries,  if  their  lustful  pride  requires  such. 
The  stables  is  to  be  done  up  same  as  the  rest.  But 
there!  What's  the  good  of  talking?  We  shall  see  what 
we  shall  see,  and  I,  for  one,  don't  expect  no  good 
from  it." 

Job,  with  whom  Richard  had  a  short  interview  as 
he  saddled  his  pony  the  following  morning,  seemed 
hardly  less  pessimistic  concerning  the  coming  changes 
than  Sarah,  but  apparently  found  some  consolation  in 
the  prospect  of  theological  disturbances. 

"  I  know  them  there  Roman  Catholics,"  he  said.  "  I 
seed  one  at  Gladehurst  Fair  when  I  was  a  boy.  They 
bows  down  to  idols,  and  beef  and  mutton's  an  abomina- 
tion to  them,  same  as  pig-meat  to  a  Jew.  And  they 
don't  let  you  alone,  neither.  Why,  you  and  me  is 
heathen  to  their  way  of  thinking,  and  the  master  too. 
Hee !  Hee !  Happen  the  Squire'll  tell  him  so.  Now 
that's  what  I'd  like  to  hear.  If  you  get  a  chanst,  Mas- 
ter Richard,  you  persuade  'em  to  have  it  out  in  this 
here  yard  when  I'm  washing  out.  Don't  say  it  right 
out,  but  inveigle  'em.  Eh?  Harses?  No,  not  as  I've 
heard  tell  on.  Two  stalls  and  a  loose  box,  that's  all. 
Happen  a  pair  o'  carriage  harses  and  a  riding  mare 
for  the  young  woman.  There'll  be  no  hunting.  They're 
a  poor  lot.  Hee !  Hee !  A  Roman  Catholic  Squire 
and  a  holy  man  for  a  parson !  Well,  that  do  beat  all." 
And  Job  retired,  chuckling. 

The  preparations  at  the  Hall  went  on  apace.  By 
favour  of  his  friend,  the  builder,  Richard  went  through 
the  house  one  Saturday  morning,  wondering  at  the 
carved  panelling,  the  stately  furniture,  the  pictures  and 
the  china,  penetrated  to  the  two  sunny  upstairs  rooms 
of  which  the  drab-coloured  walls  were  taking  on  a  dress 
of  virgin  white,  and  thought  what  a  pity  it  was  that 


210  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

such  delightful  surroundings  should  be  wasted  on  an 
elderly  spinster.  He  was  routed  out  of  the  house  by 
Sarah's  friend,  Mrs.  Biddle,  before  he  had  completed 
his  investigations,  and  from  the  stables  by  Mrs.  Bid- 
die's  husband,  both  of  whom  seemed  in  a  state  of  un- 
accountable fury.  "  Disagreeable?  "  said  Job,  when  he 
told  him  of  his  experience.  "  'Course  they're  disagree- 
able. Who  wouldn't  be?  Going  into  a  comfortable  lit- 
tle house  wi'  nothing  to  do  for  it,  and  money  paid  'em. 
Reg'lar  blood-sucker,  this  'ere  Squire  Ventrey !  I 
wouldn't  stand  it  if  I  was  the  old  Biddies.  They've 
lived  in  the  Hall  for  over  twenty  year,  an'  now  he  wants 
to  live  in  it  himself.  Grinding  the  face  of  the  poor, 
that's  what  I  call  it." 

The  Storbridge  builder  finished  his  job  and  drew  off 
his  men.  Then  came  great  vans  of  furniture  to  add  to  a 
house  that  already  seemed  full  of  it.  Curious  onlookers 
reported  one  of  them  at  least  full  of  packing  cases  of 
a  uniform  size  and  of  great  weight.  "  Corpses,"  sug- 
gested a  village  humourist.  "  Books,"  corrected  Rich- 
ard ;  "  they  weigh  a  lot."  Servants  had  already  made 
their  appearance  and  were  busy  with  unpacking.  In- 
formation leaked  through  the  barricade  kept  up  by  the 
still  resentful  Biddies.  With  the  exception  of  the 
Squire's  confidential  man,  who  was  superintending  the 
operations,  they  were  all  newly  engaged  and  knew  noth- 
ing of  their  master  or  his  belongings. 

Richard's  interest,  revived  by  the  cases  of  books,  fell 
at  the  meagreness  of  the  stable  arrangements  which  were 
next  revealed.  There  were  two  horses,  whose  claims  to 
breeding  were  but  modest,  a  station  brougham  and  a 
luggage  cart,  the  whole  being  under  the  charge  of  one 
groom  who  repelled  advances. 

On  the  Wednesday  before  Easter  the  Squire  and  his 


A  FAIRY  OF  THE  FOREST  211 

belongings  installed  themselves.  They  came  after  dark, 
it  was  said  straight  from  Paris,  and  -those  of  the  vil- 
lagers who  stood  in  the  road  to  watch  their  entry  saw 
nothing  but  the  brougham  with  its  windows  blinded 
drive  in  at  the  gate,  followed  by  the  station  fly  con- 
taining additional  attendants,  and  the  luggage  cart. 
Further  curiosity  had  to  sleep  until  the  morrow. 

Easter  was  late  that  year,  well  on  into  April,  and 
the  weather  was  a  foretaste  of  summer.  Richard  was 
up  very  early  on  the  morning  after  the  arrival  and 
prowling  in  the  woods  which  abutted  on  to  the  gardens 
of  the  Hall.  The  house,  which  had  hitherto  hardly 
counted  in  the  influences  exercised  by  his  surroundings, 
now  appealed  to  his  imagination.  He  wondered  why 
he  had  thought  so  little  of  it.  It  was  a  sight  to  gladden 
the  eyes  on  this  sweet  April  morning  as  he  looked  at  it 
from  an  opening  in  the  trees,  lying  quiet  and  spacious 
and  mellow,  in  its  beautiful  setting  of  garden  and  wood 
and  park  land,  under  the  soft  blue  of  the  sky ;  a  house 
of  many  memories  now  revivified  by  human  occupancy. 
The  smoke  beginning  to  rise  from  the  chimneys  seemed 
to  bring  it  into  relation  with  the  life  which  he  knew. 
The  aspect  of  the  village  as  it  had  always  presented 
itself  to  his  mind  had  changed.  The  old  house  so  long 
of  no  account  had  quietly  taken  its  place  as  paramount, 
and  there  was  no  question  of  disputing  its  claim. 

It  was  not  long  past  seven  o'clock.  The  sun  had 
been  up  for  two  hours,  but  the  dew  was  heavy  upon 
grass  and  bushes,  and  the  freshness  of  dawn  still  lin- 
gered. Richard  stood  in  a  clearing  of  the  wood  and 
gazed  at  the  house,  thinking  himself  quite  alone  and 
unwatched.  Suddenly  he  drew  himself  up  with  a 
startled  exclamation  as  a  clear  voice  close  behind  him 
said:  "Boy,  what  are  you  doing  here?" 


RICHARD  BALDOCK 

He  turned  round  and  saw  a  child  of  about  seven  years 
old  standing  under  a  great  oak,  gravely  regarding  him — 
the  most  beautiful  child  he  had  ever  seen.  Great  masses 
of  yellow  hair  fell  about  her  shoulders  from  under  a 
wide,  shady  hat,  and  framed  a  little  face  of  pure  oval, 
out  of  which  a  pair  of  eyes  of  forget-me-not  blue  gazed 
inquiringly.  She  was  dressed  in  white,  with  little  bare 
legs  over  socks  and  shoes  drenched  in  dew,  and  carried 
a  bunch  of  primroses  in  her  hand.  Richard  stared  at 
her  open-mouthed,  having  completely  lost  his  self- 
possession  at  the  unexpected  sight  of  this  dainty  fairy 
of  the  forest. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  she  said  again,  and 
there  was  ever  so  slight  a  foreign  intonation  in  her 
words,  a  little  roll  of  the  "  r  "  and  a  deliberation  over 
the  vowels.  "  It  is  very  early  in  the  morning,  and  most 
people  are  in  bed." 

Suddenly  she  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed  de- 
liciously,  with  a  thrill  in  her  voice  like  a  little  black- 
bird. Richard  returned  to  himself. 

"  Listen,"  she  said.  "  I  woke  up  very  early,  oh,  but 
almost  as  soon  as  the  sun.  And  I  drew  up  the  blind 
and  looked  out  at  this  lovely  place.  And  I  said  to 
myself  that  I  must  go  out  and  listen  to  the  birds.  I 
have  never  heard  birds  like  these.  So  I  dressed  very 
quietly,  so  as  not  to  wake  Artemise,  and  I  ran  out. 
And  I  came  into  this  wood  and  found  these  beautiful 
primeveres — I  do  not  know  their  English  name — and  I 
have  been  picking  them,  oh,  for  so  long.  And  there  is 
Artemise  thinking  that  I  am  asleep  in  my  bed  all  the 
time."  Again  she  laughed  in  full  enjoyment  of  the 
matchless  joke,  and  again  became  serious. 

"  But  you  have  not  told  me  who  you  are  and  why 
you  are  up  so  early  too,"  she  said. 


A  FAIRY  OF  THE  FOREST  213 

"  My  name  is  Dick,"  said  Richard.  "  I  am  the  son 
of  the  vicar.  I  generally  get  up  early  and  go  out  to 
hear  the  birds  sing,  like  you." 

"  Then  we  will  go  out  together,  and  you  shall  tell  me 
the  names  of  the  birds  and  the  flowers.  I  am  glad  you 
are  the  son  of  the  vicaire,  because  I  like  you.  You  have 
a  very  nice  face,  and  Artemise  cannot  say  that  it  is 
not  proper  for  me  to  talk  to  you.  I  like  talking  to 
people,  but  it  is  so  often  '  pas  convenable.'  I  am  sick 
of  that  word.  I  will  call  you  Dick,  and  you  must  call 
me  Lettice,  for  that  is  my  name,  an  English  name 
which  Artemise  says  is  farouche;  but  I  am  proud  of 
being  English,  though  I  have  never  been  in  England 
before.  Do  you  think  the  name  of  Lettice  is  farouche?  " 

"  I  think  it  is  a  very  pretty  name,"  responded  Rich- 
ard, a  little  surprised  at  the  extreme  friendliness  of  the 
little  lady,  but  none  the  less  enchanted.  "  I  can  tell 
you  a  lot  of  things  about  the  birds  and  the  flowers  and 
trees ;  secrets  I  can  tell  you,  and  show  you  things  that 
other  people  don't  know  of." 

The  child  laughed  delightedly.  Richard  thought  he 
had  never  seen  anything  quite  so  fascinating  as  the  way 
she  threw  back  her  head,  opened  her  little  red  mouth, 
and  sent  forth  her  thrilling  bird-music.  "  That  will 
be  lovely,"  she  said.  "  I  am  so  glad  you  got  up  early 
and  came  here  this  morning.  Tell  me  a  secret  now." 

Richard  looked  around  him.  There  was  a  big  haw- 
thorn bush  near  where  they  stood,  and  his  practised  eye 
had  noted  the  coming  and  going  of  a  pair  of  chaffinches 
while  he  and  the  child  had  been  talking.  He  peered  into 
the  bush  and  parted  the  branches.  "  Come  and  look 
here,"  he  said. 

The  child  tiptoed  towards  him,  her  hands  clasped  in 
front  of  her.  "  Oh,  a  nest,"  she  whispered,  tense  with 


RICHARD  BALDOCK 

excitement.  "  I  have  never  seen  a  nest  so  close.  Are 
there  some  little  birds  in  it?" 

"  There  are  five  little  eggs.  I  will  lift  you  up,  and 
you  can  see  them." 

She  cried  out  with  delight  as  she  saw  the  spotted 
grey-green  eggs  in  the  soft  cup  of  the  nest.  "  Those 
are  chaffinches'  eggs,"  Richard  explained.  "  See  how 
carefully  the  nest  is  built,  and  the  little  soft  feathers 
woven  in  to  keep  the  tiny  birds  warm  when  they  come 
out  of  the  shells.  Do  you  see  the  green  moss  on  the  out- 
side ;  it  is  of  the  same  colour  as  the  leaves,  and  the  clever 
little  birds  put  it  there  so  that  the  nest  shall  be  difficult 
to  see.  Some  day  I  will  find  you  a  chaffinch's  nest  on 
an  old  apple  tree.  Then  you  will  see  that  they  put 
lichen  on  the  outside  instead  of  the  moss,  so  that  their 
enemies  shan't  be  able  to  see  the  nest  against  the  trunk 
of  the  tree." 

"  Clever  little  birds,"  said  the  child.  "  But  what  ene- 
mies? " 

"  Cats  and  stoats  and  weasels.  They  climb  up  the 
trees  and  eat  the  poor  little  birds.  And  sometimes  a 
great  owl  comes  swooping  down  on  them.  They  will 
have  to  be  very  careful  when  they  are  hatched  out  and 
are  learning  to  fly." 

The  child  listened  eagerly  to  him,  with  earnest  eyes 
fixed  on  his  face.  "  The  nest  and  the  little  eggs  are 
a  secret  between  you  and  me,"  she  said.  "  And  we 
will  come  and  look  at  them  every  day,  won't  we? 
till  the  little  birds  come.  Do  you  live  quite  near 
here?" 

"  About  a  mile  away.  I  ride  along  the  road  every 
'day  when  I  go  to  school.  But  there  are  holidays  now. 
I  shall  not  be  going  to  school  again  for  another  three 
weeks.  I  will  take  you  into  the  forest  and  tell  you 


A  FAIRY  OF  THE  FOREST  215 

other  secrets  if — if .  Are  you  Mr.  Ventrey's  little 

girl?" 

"  He  is  my  grandpapa,"  she  said.  "  He  and  I  live 
together  and  love  each  other  very  much.  He  reads  to 
me  out  of  books,  but  he  cannot  teach  me  out-of-door 
secrets  because  he  cannot  walk." 

"  Can't  walk !  " 

"  No.  Poor  grandpapa.  He  is  paralytique.  Filmer 
helps  him  to  dress  and  wheels  him  out  of  doors,  but  in 
the  house  he  wheels  his  chair  himself.  And  I  open  the 
doors  for  him.  He  does  not  get  up  very  early,  or  you 
could  come  in  and  see  him  now.  But,  ah,  what  is  that?  " 

Again  the  burst  of  bird-like  laughter,  as  a  white- 
capped  and  aproned  figure  appeared  on  the  terrace 
which  ran  along  the  back  of  the  house,  wringing  dis- 
tracted hands  and  calling,  "  M'selle  Lettice !  M'selle 
Lettice !  " 

"  It  is  Artemise,  who  has  at  last  missed  me,"  said  the 
child.  "  I  must  go  to  her  now.  Good-bye,  dear  Dick. 
I  shall  see  you  again  very  soon."  She  put  up  her  little 
flower-like  face,  and  Richard  bent  down  and  kissed  her. 
Then  she  was  flying  across  the  grass,  her  long  hair 
streaming  behind  her,  leaving  him  to  stand  motionless 
with  a  wealth  of  new  sensations  rising  in  his  heart  until 
she  and  the  bonne  disappeared  into  the  house. 

Richard  walked  slowly  home.  He  had  a  great  deal 
to  think  of.  So  this  was  the  reality  which  was  to  take 
the  place  of  the  unattractive  dream  conjured  up  out 
of  old  Sarah's  imagination.  In  place  of  a  middle-aged 
spinster,  of  no  possible  interest  to  anybody,  a  frank 
and  most  engaging  little  child,  sweet-eyed  and  friendly, 
a  sylph-like  rarity  but  warmly  human  too,  the  very 
remembrance  of  whom  caused  his  heart  to  thrill.  He 
thought  of  his  morning's  adventure  all  through  the  day 


216  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

with  a  kind  of  exaltation.  It  was  too  precious  to  bear 
discussion,  and  he  told  no  one  of  it,  receiving  even  with- 
out comment  Sarah's  announcement  of  the  discovery 
that  the  Squire  had  no  daughter,  but  a  little  grand- 
child, the  only  other  member  of  his  family  left  alive. 
"  A  spoilt  brat,  I  warrant,"  said  Sarah,  "  with  a  for- 
eign trollop  to  wait  on  her  hand  and  foot  and  fill  her 
mind  with  idolatries.  All  we  can  do  is  to  pray  that  a 
judgment  won't  fall  on  the  place,  but  it  ain't  likely  that 
our  prayers'll  be  answered." 

Richard  left  her  to  the  satisfaction  aroused  by  this 
consideration,  and  went  downstairs.  He  did  not  know 
that  his  father  had  been  to  call  on  the  Squire,  for  the 
Vicar  had  repulsed  his  attempts  to  lead  the  conversation 
on  to  the  subject  at  their  early  dinner,  being  in  that 
mood  which  is  known  in  the  nursery  as  "  contrariness." 
He  came  into  the  hall  as  Richard  reached  the  bottom 
of  the  stairs.  "  You  are  to  go  at  once  to  the  Hall," 
he  said.  "  Mr.  Ventrey  wishes  to  see  you.  Please 
make  yourself  as  tidy  as  possible.  Why  did  you  not 
tell  me  that  you  had  already  met  Mr.  Ventrey's  grand- 
daughter? " 

Richard  hung  his  head  and  flushed  up.  "  I — I  don't 
know,"  he  said. 

His  father  looked  at  him  severely.  "  That  is  no  an- 
swer," he  said.  "  You  must  have  had  some  reason  for 
not  telling  me.  You  could  talk  of  nothing  but  Mr. 
Ventrey  and  his  belongings  the  other  day." 

Richard  looked  up.  "  And  you  told  me  not  to, 
father,"  he  said,  not  without  a  note  of  opposition  in  his 
voice. 

The  Vicar  frowned.  "  You  are  getting  impertinent 
in  your  speech  towards  me,"  he  said,  angrily,  "  and 
you  are  idle  over  your  work.  My  patience  is  at  an  en$. 


A  FAIRY  OF  THE  FOREST  217 

I  shall  not  permit  you  to  go  on  in  the  way  you  are  doing 
now.  Go  up  to  the  Hall  now  and  do  not  stay  longer 
than  an  hour.  And  come  to  me  directly  you  return." 
He  retreated  into  his  study  and  shut  the  door  behind 
him  with  decision. 

The  better  understanding  that  had  arisen  between 
John  Baldock  and  his  son  had  largely  evaporated  dur- 
ing the  past  months.  Perhaps  because  he  was  not  en- 
tirely contented  with  himself,  Richard  had  felt  more 
irritation  against  his  father  of  late  than  ever  before. 
But  he  was  too  used  to  blame  and  injustice  to  allow 
their  exhibition  to  disturb  him  very  much,  and  with  the 
prospect  of  this  wonderful  visit  filling  his  mind  he  put 
from  him  all  thoughts  of  the  ordeal  that  was  to  come 
after  it.  He  ran  upstairs  and  changed  quickly  into  his 
best  clothes,  then  hurried  out  of  the  house  and  along  a 
forest  track  which  led  him  out  on  to  the  road  opposite 
to  the  Hall,  his  mind  filled  with  pleasurable  anticipa- 
tions and  a  little  alarm. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  VICAR 

RICHARD  rang  at  the  bell  and  was  admitted  first  of  all 
into  a  spacious  hall,  and,  after  a  short  wait,  into  a 
long,  low  room  full  of  books  from  floor  to  ceiling.  He 
had  an  impression  of  a  white-haired  man  sitting  with  a 
rug  across  his  knees  by  a  table  laden  with  silver  near 
a  bright  fire,  and  then  saw  nothing  but  the.  figure  of  his 
little  friend  of  the  dewy  morning  and  the  forest  glade 
coming  to  meet  him  down  the  long  length  of  the  room. 
She  smiled  at  him,  and,  taking  his  hand,  led  him  to  her 
grandfather.  "  I  am  very  glad  you  have  come,"  she 
said,  "  Dick." 

The  Squire  shook  hands  with  him  courteously,  as  if 
he  were  an  equal.  Richard  saw  before  him  a  man  with 
white  hair  and  beard,  but  a  fresh-coloured  face  and  a 
pair  of  piercing  grey  eyes,  observant  but  kind.  The 
shyness  with  which  he  had  entered  the  room  vanished  as 
he  met  the  look  of  his  host.  "  You  have  already  made 
the  acquaintance  of  my  granddaughter,"  said  the  old 
man.  "  I  am  glad  that  she  found  someone  to  tell  her 
something  about  the  beauties  and  interests  of  her  new 
home  so  soon  after  she  came  to  it." 

"  I  told  grandpapa  about  the  five  little  eggs,"  said 
the  child.  "  When  I  said  it  was  to  be  our  secret  I  for- 
got to  tell  you  that  I  tell  all  my  secrets  to  grandpapa." 
She  leant  against  him,  and  the  old  man  drew  her  fondly 
towards  him. 

"  Please  sit  down,  Dick,"  he  said.  "  We  are  all  three 
218 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  VICAR         219 

going  to  be  friends,  and  I  shall  begin  by  calling  you 
Dick,  as  a  friend  should.  Yes,  Lettice  and  I  have  many 
secrets  between  us.  Lettice  likes  secrets,  and  I  know 
you  are  going  to  tell  her  ever  so  many  new  ones.  She 
has  been  a  little  town  bird  hitherto.  Sometimes  we  have 
flown  away  together  to  the  blue  sea  and  the  flowers,  but 
we  have  never  lived  amongst  the  trees  and  the  fields  be- 
fore. Most  of  our  secrets  have  had  to  do  with  people, 
and  some  with  books.  Now  we  are  going  to  learn  some 
of  the  secrets  of  nature.  And  you  are  to  be  our  teacher. 
Your  father  says  that  you  know  as  much  about  this 
wonderful  forest  as  any  of  our  neighbours.  I  have 
asked  him  if  you  may  go  with  my  little  bird  when  she 
is  free  to  roam  about  the  forest — but  she  is  not  going 
to  give  the  good  Artemise  the  slip  again,  and  roam 
about  by  herself,  eh,  my  treasure?  "  He  pinched  the 
child's  cheek  and  she  blushed  and  looked  down. 

"  That  was  a  little  error  of  judgment,"  he  continued, 
in  his  pleasant,  well-modulated  voice.  "  Freedom  is  a 
good  thing,  but  little  birds  as  young  as  ours  want  com- 
panionship in  their  freedom.  Would  you  like  to  be  the 
companion  sometimes,  when  you,  too,  are  free,  Dick?  " 

Richard  made  haste  to  reply  that  he  would  like  noth- 
ing better,  rather  awkwardly,  but  frankly  too.  The 
Squire's  eyes  looked  searchingly  at  him,  and  evidently 
found  nothing  in  his  appearance  and  manner  that  did 
not  please  him. 

"  You  must  come  here  whenever  you  like,"  he  said. 
"  When  it  is  fine  you  and  Lettice  shall  go  into  the 
forest  and  the  gardens,  and  sometimes,  perhaps,  you 
will  push  my  chair  for  me,  so  that  I  may  share  your 
pleasures.  When  it  is  wet,  we  shall  find  something  to  do 
indoors.  I  have  many  books  and  other  treasures.  Do 
you  like  books?  " 


220  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Richard.  "  I  read  as  much  as  ever 
I  can."  * 

"  Then  we  will  talk  about  books  together.  It  is  a 
great  thing  to  be  fond  of  books.  One  is  never  lonely 
or  dull  with  them  to  bear  one  company,  and  one  does 
not  mind  being  kept  indoors.  But  books  are  chiefly  for 
the  fire  and  lamp  light,  and  for  the  bad  days,  unless 
one's  life  work  is  concerned  with  them.  To  live  an 
outdoor  life  where  one  can,  that  is  far  better.  I  am 
sure  you  are  an  open-air  boy,  are  you  not?  and  do  not 
brood  over  books  when  you  can  be  out  in  your  beautiful 
forest." 

Richard  looked  a  little  shamefaced.  "  I  have  been 
reading  a  great  deal  this  winter,"  he  said.  "  More  than 
I  used  to.  Chiefly  novels,"  he  added,  for  he  did 
not  want  to  appear  in  false  colours,  surrounded  by 
the  rows  and  rows  of  grave-looking  books  on  the 
walls. 

The  Squire  looked  kindly  at  him.  "  You  have  begun 
to  see  that  life  is  a  wonderful  thing,"  he  said.  "  And 
you  can  learn  about  life  from  novels.  But  it  is  better, 
you  know,  to  observe  for  yourself,  rather  than  to  take 
for  granted  what  others  tell  you.  And  you  must  not 
let  go  the  things  you  have  taught  yourself  in  your  out- 
of-door  life.  Your  eyes  are  open  to  them  now,  and  you 
take  them  in  a  way  you  will  not  be  able  to  later  on. 
You  are  laying  up  for  yourself  a  great  store  of  pleasure 
for  future  years.  I  learnt  these  things,  too,  when  I 
was  young.  I  know  the  forest  and  love  it,  though  I 
have  not  visited  it  for  fifty  years.  But  I  want  my  little 
Lettice  to  grow  up  to  know  it  and  love  it  too,  so  at 
last  I  have  come  back.  And  I  want  you  to  show  her 
everything  you  can,  and  to  teach  her  the  secrets  of  na- 
ture. I  want  you  first  of  all  to  buy  her  a  pony  and 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  VICAR 

teach  her  to  ride  it,  a  good  little  forest  pony.  I  dare 
say  you  know  of  one  that  would  do." 

Richard  knew  of  several,  and  undertook  the  commis- 
sion with  eagerness.  He  was  immensely  impressed  by 
the  kindness  of  the  Squire  and  the  interest  he  showed  in 
him,  not  a  little  grateful,  too,  enchanted  at  the  idea  of 
so  sweet  a  little  companion  for  his  forest  rambles,  and 
proud  of  the  trust  imposed  upon  him.  He  spent  one 
of  the  happiest  hours  he  had  ever  known.  Little  Let- 
tice  made  the  tea,  which  seemed  to  Richard  a  very 
luxurious  meal,  and  to  which  he  did  full  justice.  The 
Squire  seemed  to  sympathize  with  the  appetite  of  a 
healthy  boy  as  well  as  with  his  other  less  material 
tastes.  Indeed,  his  sympathy  was  surprising,  and  com- 
pletely won  Richard's  heart.  All  three  of  them  talked 
incessantly,  and  it  was  with  a  start  of  dismay  that 
Richard  heard  the  tall  clock  in  the  corner  chime  six, 
and  realized  that  his  hour  of  enjoyment  had  run  its 
course. 

A  shadow  came  over  his  face  as  he  rose  from  his  seat. 
"  I'm  afraid  I  must  be  going." 

"Won't  you  stay  with  us  a  little  longer?"  urged 
the  Squire.  "  Lettice  does  not  go  to  bed  until  seven. 
We  thought  you  would  like  to  help  us  get  the  books 
into  better  order.  Filmer  has  done  it  very  cleverly  on 
the  whole,  but  I  want  to  make  some  alterations." 

"  I  should  like  to  very  much  indeed,"  said  Rich- 
ard, "  but  father  told  me  to  come  home  in  an  hour's 
time." 

"  Then  I  won't  keep  you  now,"  said  the  Squire,  "  but 
mind  you  come  and  see  us  very  often.  Come  to-morrow 
morning  and  tell  us  what  you  have  been  able  to  do  about 
the  pony." 

Richard  took  his  leave  and  went  out.     As  he  walked 


222  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

home  his  mind  was  in  a  turmoil.  It  was  all  so  strange 
and  new  and  delightful  to  him.  The  beautiful  luxurious 
house,  in  which  he  had  been  made  to  feel  at  home  and 
which  he  had  been  told  was  free  to  him  as  often  as  he 
liked  to  come.  Still  more  the  charming,  friendly  child 
whose  daintiness  and  delicate  beauty  was  like  nothing 
feminine  he  had  ever  come  across  in  his  life;  and  the 
courteous  old  man  who  treated  him  as  an  equal,  and  had 
shown  plainly  that  he  liked  and  trusted  him.  One  would 
have  had  to  be  brought  up  in  a  loveless  home  such  as  had 
fallen  to  Richard's  lot  to  realize  fully  the  strength  of 
the  impression  made  on  a  susceptible  mind  by  an  experi- 
ence common  enough  to  more  favoured  mortals,  but  to 
him  entirely  new.  One  envies  him  as  he  treads  the 
springy  turf  of  the  forest  track  under  the  evening  sky 
of  palest  daffodil,  young  and  avid  of  sensation,  his 
heart  stirred  by  the  wonderful  discovery  of  love  and 
kindness,  hitherto  unknown,  opening  out  to  him ;  so  well 
dowered  was  he  by  nature  to  give  and  receive  the  best 
that  the  world  had  to  offer  in  the  way  of  companionship 
and  affection. 

Happy  thoughts  went  with  him  till  he  entered  his 
home.  Then  a  cold  shadow  seemed  to  descend  and  cut 
him  off  from  the  brightness  in  which  he  had  been  mov- 
ing. He  felt  a  fierce  sensation  of  revolt  against  the 
normal  conditions  of  his  home  life,  now  revealed  to  him 
as  grey  and  sunless,  and  against  the  schooling  he  was 
to  undergo  at  the  hands  of  his  father.  He  gave  him- 
self no  time  to  think,  but  knocked  at  the  study  door, 
his  lips  set  and  a  frown  on  his  face. 

John  Baldock  was  seated  at  the  desk  where  he  sucked 
in  as  much  theology  as  would  have  made  him  as  saintly 
a  man  as  any  to  be  found  in  England,  if  theology  and 
the  spirit  of  Christianity  were  interchangeable  terms. 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  VICAR 

He  shut  up  his  book  as  Richard  stood  before  him,  de- 
fiant and  dark-browed. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  in  what  may  be  best  described  as  a 
nasty  way,  "  that  is  a  pleasant  face  to  bring  before 
me!" 

His  tone  goaded  the  boy  into  rudeness.  "  I'm  used  to 
being  blamed  and  bullied  for  nothing,"  he  said  hotly. 
"  But  you  can't  expect  me  to  look  pleasant  about  it." 
He  had  never  spoken  to  his  father  in  that  way  before, 
and  half  repented  the  words  as  soon  as  they  were 
out  of  his  mouth.  But  his  soul  was  sore  within  him, 
and  he  strung  himself  up  to  the  encounter  that  was  to 
follow. 

John  Baldock's  face  never  altered,  which  even  in  the 
blindness  of  his  passion  gave  Richard  a  slight  shock  of 
surprise,  for  he  had  expected  a  violent  retort.  "  I 
think  that  you  forget  that  you  are  talking  to  your 
father,"  he  said. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  cried  the  boy.  "  I'm  not  likely  to  for- 
get it.  Nobody  but  my  father  is  always  on  the  look- 
out to  find  fault  with  me,  and  enjoys  doing  it.  Other 
boys  have  fathers  and  mothers  who  love  them  and 
praise  them  if  they  do  well.  You've  never  praised  me 
all  my  life,  and  whatever  I  do  you're  on  the  look-out 
to  find  something  wrong  in  it.  You  don't  help  me. 
You  hardly  ever  even  speak  kindly  to  me.  I  believe 
you're  really  pleased  when  you  can  find  something  to 
punish  me  for.  You've  been  like  that  ever  since  I  can 
remember.  Now  I'm  growing  older — and — I'm  not 
going — I — you  ought  not  to  treat  me  like  you  do." 

By  the  time  he  had  come  to  the  end  of  his  poured- 
out  bitterness  he  was  in  angry  tears.  His  father  still 
looked  at  him  quietly,  apparently  moved  neither  by  his 
passion  nor  his  rebellious  utterance,  very  different  in 


RICHARD  BALDOCK 

tone  from  anything  he  had  ever  heard  from  him  before. 

It  was  a  curious  character,  this  harsh  and  narrow- 
minded  Churchman's.  For  fifteen  years  he  had  ridden 
roughshod  over  the  sensibilities  of  his  son,  exhibiting 
abundant  pettiness  in  his  attitude  of  almost  constant 
criticism,  giving  rein  to  his  warped  inclination  to  find 
fault  and  to  domineer.  So  long  as  he  had  been  able  to 
do  this  without  meeting  opposition  he  had  been  very 
nearly  completely  satisfied  with  himself;  not  quite  satis- 
fied always,  as  we  have  already  seen,  but  it  had  only 
been  very  rarely  that  he  had  been  pulled  up  in  this  dis- 
agreeable course  of  action.  Now,  confronted  with 
mutinous  attack,  he  was  a  different  man  altogether. 

"  These  are  very  serious  charges  you  bring  against 
me,"  he  said.  "  Have  you  thought  them  over  care- 
fully, as  to  whether  they  are  quite  justified?" 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  Richard  broke  out  again.  "  I'm  not 
always  behaving  badly ;  even  you  can't  say  that.  Tell 
me  once  when  you  have  ever  praised  me  for  behaving 
well." 

"  That  is  a  foolish  thing  to  ask.  No  good  man  ex- 
pects praise  for  doing  his  duty.  Whatever  you  expect 
of  me,  you  need  not  expect  that." 

"  I  don't  expect  it.  I  only  expect  you  not  to  look 
out  for  every  little  thing  you  can  possibly  blame  me 
for." 

"  We  will  have  no  more  general  charges  couched  in 
disrespectful  language.  Until  we  get  to  the  bottom 
of  your  cause  of  complaint  against  me,  we  will  discuss 
the  matter  without  heat  or  rudeness  on  either  side. 
Your  position  seems  to  be  that  you  are  so  satisfied  with 
yourself  that  you  resent  me,  your  father  to  whom  you 
owe  obedience  and  respect,  correcting  you  for  what  I 
consider  faults  of  conduct." 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  VICAR         225 

"  No,  father,"  said  Richard,  in  a  quieter  tone. 
"  That  isn't  my  position."  He  felt  himself  handicapped 
in  the  controversy,  but  his  naturally  logical  mind  and 
the  sense  which  had  been  growing  in  him  that  his  father 
treated  him  with  harshness  and  unfairness,  a  sense  now 
suddenly  rendered  acute  by  his  late  experience  of  a  home 
where  love  and  kindness  reigned  supreme,  prepared  him 
to  concentrate  his  mind  upon  what  he  did  feel  sore  about, 
and,  now  that  the  ice  was  broken,  to  state  it  with  what 
clearness  and  insistence  he  could. 

"  Then  what  is  your  position?  "  asked  his  father. 
"  It  seems  to  me  so,  but  I  am  willing  to  hear  it  ex- 
pressed as  you  feel  it." 

"  It  is  what  I  have  said.  You  do  take  every  oppor- 
tunity of  blaming  me.  Whether  I  do  right  or  wrong 
there's  always  something.  I  never  do " 

"  Wait  a  minute.  You  say,  whether  you  do  right 
or  wrong.  Do  you  accuse  me  of  blaming  you  for  doing 
right?" 

"  You  blame  me  for  things  that  aren't  wrong." 

"  Then  you  are  to  be  the  judge  of  what  is  right  and 
wrong,  and  not  I." 

The  boy  looked  puzzled  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
made  a  motion  as  if  to  brush  away  some  trivial  obstacle. 
"  I'm  not  a  baby,"  he  said.  "  All  my  life  you  have 
been  telling  me  what  is  right  and  what  is  wrong.  I  know 
well  enough  if  I've  done  something  that's  really  wrong." 

"  Will  you  give  me  an  instance,  then,  of  my  blaming 
you  for  something  that  isn't  wrong?  " 

He  gave  a  dreary  little  laugh.  "  I  could  give  you 
plenty  of  instances  of  that,  father,"  he  said.  "  The 
very  thing  that  you  were  angry  with  me  for  this  after- 
noon— because  I  hadn't  told  you  that  I  had  seen  Mr. 
Ventrey's  little  granddaughter  this  morning." 


226  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  That  is  not  a  very  well  chosen  instance.  What  I 
was  angry  with  you  for  was  for  answering  me  rudely 
when  I  spoke  to  you  about  it,  for  that  and  for  other 
things  of  which  I  told  you  at  the  time." 

"  That  came  afterwards.  You  spoke  angrily  to  me 
for  not  telling  you,  before  I  had  said  anything." 

"And  why  didn't  you  tell  me?  Wouldn't  it  have 
been  natural  for  you  to  tell  me  a  thing  like  that  when 
we  came  together  at  dinner?  It  must  have  been  con- 
stantly in  your  mind.  But  the  fact  that  you  said  noth- 
ing about  it  is  a  good  example  of  the  sort  of  resentful 
sulkiness  you  have  displayed  towards  me  now  for  some 
months  past.  Your  answering  rudely  when  I  asked  you 
is  all  part  of  that  behaviour,  and  it  was  against  that 
behaviour  that  my  anger,  if  you  like  to  call  it  anger,  was 
directed." 

Richard  felt  the  ground  slipping  from  beneath  his 
feet.  "  Resentful  sulkiness,"  was  an  exaggerated  de- 
scription of  his  attitude  towards  his  father  of  late,  but 
it  was  near  enough  to  be  recognizable.  "  I  can't  argue 
about  it  like  you  can,  father,"  he  said,  "  but " 

"  There  is  no  question  of  ability  to  argue.  You  can 
tell  me  straightforwardly  what  is  in  your  mind." 

"  I  am  trying  to.  I  am  sorry  that  I  spoke  rudely 
to  you  this  afternoon,  but  what  I  said  was  true.  I  spoke 
to  you  about  Mr.  Ventrey  and  the  Hall  the  other  day, 
and  you  shut  me  up  at  once.  I  never  know  what  I  may 
talk  about  and  what  I  mayn't.  You  do  find  fault 
with  me  if  you  possibly  can.  If  I  had  told  you  about 
meeting  that  little  girl  this  morning  I  am  pretty  certain 
you  would  have  found  fault  with  me  for  that,  for  some 
reason  or  other.  I  can't  talk  to  you  about  things 
that  interest  me  like  other  boys  can  to  their  fathers 
and  mothers.  I'm  either  snubbed  or  I'm  blamed.  You 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  VICAR 

tell  me  to  be  good  but  you  don't  help  me  to  be.  When 
I  said  that  you  never  praised  me  for  doing  well  I  didn't 
mean  quite  that.  I  don't  want  you  to  praise  me.  But 
I  don't  think  it  would  do  me  much  harm  if  you  were 
just  to  show  that  you  were  pleased  with  me.  It's  sim- 
ply this,  that  when  I'm  not  doing  as  well  as  I  might 
you've  got  something  to  blame  me  for,  and  when  I'm 
doing  my  best  you  blame  me  for  any  little  thing  that 
you  find  against  me  all  the  same.  It  doesn't  make  much 
difference.  You  never  show  that  you're  pleased  with 
me.  I  suppose  because  you  never  are." 

"  Do  you  think  what  you  are  saying  is  quite  true, 
Richard?  " 

"  Yes ;  it  is  true." 

"  I  think  not.  Although  there  may  be  a  modicum  of 
truth  in  it.  Possibly  in  my  watchfulness  over  your 
character  I  may  have  been  over-anxious  to  root  out 
faults.  I  mean  that  the  way  I  have  gone  about  to 
root  them  out  may  not  have  been  the  best  I  could  have 
used.  Being  mortal  and  infested  with  sin,  the  most 
careful  of  us  may  make  mistakes  in  the  way  we  exer- 
cise responsibility.  But  is  it  not  true  that  from  the 
time  you  first  began  to  go  to  school,  from  the  time  of 
your  visit  to  your  aunt's  and  after  what  then  occurred, 
that  we  were  happy  together,  that  we  talked  of  many 
things  from  time  to  time  as  father  and  son  should,  that 
there  was  confidence  between  us,  that  work  went 
smoothly,  and  that  this  state  of  things,  which  I  admit 
has  new  come  to  an  end,  continued  until  a  few  months 
ago?" 

This  point  of  view  was  new  and  somewhat  surprising 
to  Richard.  "  I  don't  want  to  be  ungrateful  to  you, 
father,"  he  said.  "  You  certainly  were  kinder  after 
that.  But  I  don't  think  there  was  quite  so  much  dif? 


228  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

ference  as  you  say.  I  always  had  to  be  very  careful." 
"  Quite  so.  And  I  intend  that  you  always  shall  be. 
I  do  not  in  the  least  regret  anything  I  have  ever  done  or 
said  that  would  cause  you  to  look  on  life  and  conduct 
seriously.  And  I  am  not  the  sort  of  parent,  please 
God  never  shall  be,  who  is  content  to  share  light  and 
unworthy  views  of  life  with  their  children.  Such  parents 
may  gain  a  poor  reward  for  a  short  time.  Their  chil- 
dren, no  doubt,  have  more  freedom  in  their  presence 
and  may  give  them  an  increase  of  the  sort  of  affection 
which  I  hold  as  worthless.  But  they  will  live  to 
anathematize  them ;  deservedly  so,  for  such  a  training — 
or,  rather,  want  of  it — is  a  wicked  misuse  of  the  respon- 
sibilities of  parentage.  And  now,  Richard,  I  should 
like  you  to  ask  yourself  this  question.  Has  there  been 
nothing  in  your  conduct  to  produce  the  change  which 
has  come  over  our  relationship?  Have  you  been  quite 
satisfied  with  yourself  during  the  last  six  months  ?  You 
have  brought  very  severe  charges  against  me  for  what 
you  regard  as  undue  severity  towards  you.  Have  you 
not  some  reason  for  being  severe  with  yourself?  " 

Richard  looked  down  on  the  floor ;  but  did  not  answer. 
"  I  will  ask  you  the  question  again,"  said  his  father. 
"  But  first  of  all  I  want  to  say  this.  There  are  fathers 
to  whom  it  is  possible  to  be  companions  to  their  sons, 
to  share  such  of  their  pursuits  and  recreations  as  are 
innocent,  without  losing  sight  of  their  parental  respon- 
sibility in  the  way  I  have  described.  I  am  not  one  of 
them.  My  pursuits  and  yours  are  different,  as  our 
characters  are  different.  We  should  both  find  a  con- 
stant and  close  companionship  irksome.  You  no  less 
than  I.  But  you  will  do  me  the  justice  to  remember 
that  you  have  had  as  large  a  measure  of  freedom  as  any 
boy  of  your  own  class,  or  indeed  any  class,  you  have 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  VICAR 

ever  come  across.  I  have  never  interfered  with  your  out- 
door pursuits,  or  objected  to  your  spending  your  leisure 
in  any  way  you  pleased.  You  will  acknowledge,  I  think, 
that  is  the  case." 

"  Yes,  father,"  said  Richard. 

"  Then  kindly  take  that  into  account  when  you  are 
passing  judgment  upon  me  in  your  mind.  And  now  I 
will  repeat  my  question.  You  are  right  in  saying  that 
I  have  not  been  pleased  with  you  during  the  past  six 
months.  You  seem  to  do  your  work  fairly  well  when 
you  are  immediately  under  my  eye,  but  there  is  a  very 
marked  difference  in  the  spirit  in  which  you  do  it,  and 
I  need  not  remind  you  that  the  result  at  the  end  of  last 
term  was  not  satisfactory.  I  must  say,  too,  that  I 
have  no  expectation  of  its  being  more  satisfactory  at 
the  end  of  this.  I  will  say  nothing  more  about  your 
attitude  to  me  during  that  time.  I  have  been  severe  to 
you,  you  say.  Granted.  But  you  have  resented  my 
severity  in  a  way  you  would  not  have  done  if  there 
had  not  been  cause  for  it.  Now,  am  I  not  right  ?  " 

Another  pause. 

Then  John  Baldock,  at  last,  by  the  grace  of  God 
hit  the  right  note. 

"  Tell  me  what  has  been  wrong,  Richard,  and  let  us 
try  to  put  it  right." 

Instantly  the  boy  dissolved  into  tears.  "  Come  here," 
said  his  father,  and  he  went  round  the  table  and  stood 
by  his  chair  with  his  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  his 
father's  arm  encircling  him. 

He  sobbed  out  his  confession,  not  so  very  dreadful  a 
confession  after  all.  Even  John  Baldock,  severe  as  was 
his  normal  attitude  towards  what  he  called  worldly 
thoughts,  and  impatient  with  anything  in  the  nature  of 
literature,  in  which  category  he  included,  of  course,  all 


280  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

fiction,  was  surprised  that  it  amounted  to  nothing  more 
than  an  overdose  of  novel-reading,  not,  strictly  speak- 
ing, even  surreptitious.  But  as  the  boy  went  on  he 
realized  something  of  how  the  matter  stood  with  him, 
and  set  himself  to  elucidate  it,  with  a  tact  which  seemed 
to  have  descended  for  that  purpose  only,  for  it  was  as 
superior  to  the  ordinary  insight  vouchsafed  to  him  as 
possible. 

"  I  think  I  see  how  it  is,"  he  said.  "  What  you  have 
done  was  very  delightful  at  first,  and  could  not  be  said 
to  be  definitely  wrong  in  itself  if  you  had  not  let  your 
thoughts  become  engrossed  in  it.  The  reading  of  tales 
and  stories  I  regard  as  absolute  waste  of  valuable  time. 
If  you  allow  them  to  take  hold  of  your  mind  they  give 
you  wrong  views  of  life.  I  suppose  if  stories  were 
written  by  Christian  men  and  women  it  might  not  be 
so.  But  they  are  not.  However,  I  should  not  expect 
you  to  hold  that  view  at  your  age,  and  I  should  not 
seek  to  prevent  your  reading  light  books  altogether  as 
long  as  they  were  not  definitely  irreligious.  I  don't 
think  you  would  want  to  read  such  books,  and  we  need 
say  no  more  on  that  point.  But,  like  all  things  that 
have  not  to  do  with  our  eternal  welfare,  reading  of  that 
sort,  if  over  indulged  in,  becomes  a  temptation,  and, 
like  all  temptations,  brings  satiety  at  last.  I  think 
you  have  become  very  tired  of  your  novel-reading." 

"  Yes,  father.  I  don't  want  to  go  on  with  it  any 
more." 

"  Very  well.  You  are  now  in  a  position  to  see  plainly 
why  it  has  not  brought  you  happiness.  I  don't  accuse 
you  of  wilfully  deceiving  me  about  it,  but  you  knew  that 
I  should  not  approve  of  the  extent  to  which  you  car- 
ried it,  and  of  course  that  has  made  you  unhappy  and 
explains  much  of  the  change  in  your  attitude  towards 


THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  VICAR          231 

me.  For  the  change  has  been  in  you,  Richard,  and  not 
in  me.  Then  of  course  it  has  affected  your  work.  Al- 
though you  have  not  been  actually  idle  in  the  times 
set  apart  for  lessons  or  preparation,  your  mind  has 
not  been  set  on  what  are  the  chief  duties  of  your  life 
at  present  in  the  way  it  must  be  set  if  you  are  to  suc- 
ceed. The  duties  have  become  toilsome,  you  have  known 
failure  where  before  you  had  success,  and  you  have 
become  dissatisfied  with  yourself  on  that  account.  And 
lastly,  I  take  it  that  you  are  dissatisfied  with  yourself 
because  you  have  been  accustomed  to  take  an  innocent 
pleasure  in  the  life  of  the  open  air,  and  you  have  given 
up  that  pleasure  for  a  far  less  satisfactory  one.  I  am 
not  on  such  sure  ground  here,  because  my  interests  in 
life  are  different,  but  I  think  to  a  certain  extent  I 
understand  and  sympathize.  I  have  always,  at  any 
rate,  been  content  that  you  should  spend  much  of  your 
time  out  of  doors,  and  have  felt  that  God  might  reveal 
Himself  to  you  in  the  bounties  of  nature  with  which  He 
has  surrounded  you,  as  He  has  revealed  Himself  to  me 
in  other  ways.  Only  this  afternoon  I  was  saying  to  Mr. 
Ventrey  that  you  knew  and  loved  the  forest  as  few  of 
us  who  dwell  in  it  do.  Although  it  is  a  knowledge  and 
love  not  to  be  compared  with  that  given  to  God's  Word 
or  His  service,  it  may  indirectly  lead  to  that.  It  is,  I 
am  assured,  a  healthy  love  and  knowledge,  and  it  should 
be  treasured  as  a  Gift  and  not  lightly  exchanged  for 
something  that,  as  you  see,  has  brought  unhappiness 
with  it.  You  have  come  to  feel  that,  and  now  that  you 
are  going  to  give  up  this  indulgence,  you  will  go  back 
to  your  open-air  pursuits  with  renewed  pleasure." 

Richard's  hand  stole  round  and  rested  on  his  father's 
other  shoulder.  "  I  wish  I  had  told  you  about  it  before, 
father,"  he  said. 


"  I  wish  you  had,  my  boy,"  replied  John  Baldock, 
quite  unconscious,  so  well  had  he  played  his  part,  that 
nothing  less  than  the  defiance  with  which  the  interview 
had  started  would  have  brought  him  into  the  mood  to 
deal  with  the  situation  in  the  way  he  had  done.  "  We 
could  have  talked  it  over  and  put  an  end  to  it  much 
sooner.  But  it  is  at  an  end  now,  let  us  thank  God's 
mercy  for  it,  and  shall  come  between  us  no  longer.  I 
shall  never  mention  the  subject  again." 

And  he  never  did.  He  had  won  handsomely,  and 
could  afford  to  be  generous.  When  he  thought  over 
the  course  of  the  conversation  later  that  night  he  did 
ask  himself  whether  there  was  any  truth  in  the  accusa- 
tions the  boy  had  brought  against  him,  apart  from  the 
actual  case  under  special  discussion ;  but  he  was  so 
taken  with  the  eloquence  and  reasonableness  he  had 
brought  to  bear  on  the  subject,  and  on  its  happy  re- 
sults, that  the  keenness  of  his  inward  vision  was  some- 
what obscured.  He  decided  that  there  was  nothing  in 
those  accusations. 

As  for  Richard,  for  the  first  time  for  many  months 
he  went  to  bed  completely  happy.  He  had  purged  his 
soul  of  the  indulgence  that  had  clogged  it,  and  cher- 
ished a  new  feeling  for  his  father  made  up  of  gratitude, 
admiration,  and  affection  mixed.  Then  there  was  the 
Hall  and  the  kind  Squire  and  the  charming  child  to 
think  of,  and  nothing  now  to  come  between  him  and 
the  enjoyment  of  these  new  delights.  His  heart  was  as 
light  as  a  feather,  and  he  fell  asleep  with  a  smile  on  his 
lips. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

AT  BEECHURST  HALL 

ME.  VENTREY  was  dressing  for  dinner  with  the  assist- 
ance of  the  staid  and  respectable  Filmer.  Master  and 
man  were  very  good  friends.  The  one  liked  to  talk  and 
the  other  to  listen.  Mr.  Ventrey  was  talking  now,  and 
Filmer  was  listening,  throwing  in  from  time  to  time  a 
small  but  well-considered  contribution  to  the  conversa- 
tion, the  subject  of  which  was  Richard,  who  had  left 
the  house  an  hour  or  two  before. 

"  It  was  a  risk,  Filmer,"  Mr.  Ventrey  was  saying. 
"  I  said  to  myself,  '  The  child  cannot  have  made  a 
mistake.  No  child  does  when  it  is  a  question  of  char- 
acter ;  least  of  all  my  little  Lettice.'  But  when  I  saw 
the  father — that  hard,  ignorant  bigot,  whom,  neverthe- 
less, Filmer,  we  must  be  careful  to  support,  and,  if 
possible,  to  humanize — I  confess  I  felt  doubtful." 

"  Your  kindness  of  heart,  sir,  is  proverbial." 

"  Thank  you,  Filmer.  Directly  I  set  eyes  on  the  boy 
I  knew  that  there  had  been  no  mistake.  What  a  charm- 
ing open  face!  I  should  have  liked  to  have  a  son  like 
that.  Those  clear  eyes — nothing  to  conceal  in  the  heart 
to  which  they  are  the  windows,  Filmer." 

"  A  pretty  thought,  sir." 

"  Thank  you,  Filmer.  Perhaps  just  a  slight  shadow 
now,  but  I  found  out  the  reason  for  that,  and  we  shall 
disperse  it.  Do  you  know,  Filmer,  what  gives  a  boy  a 
look  like  that — open  and  honest  and  fearless?  " 

"  I  should  be  pleased  to  be  informed,  sir." 
333 


234  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  Then  I  will  inform  you.  It  is  the  look  that  is  pro- 
duced only  by  the  open-air  life,  by  constant  companion- 
ship with  Nature.  It  is  the  look  that  Nature  imprints 
upon  the  faces  of  her  votaries.  You  cannot  get  it  from 
poring  over  books,  Filmer;  you  cannot  even  get  it  by 
observation  of  humankind.  It  is  the  look  that  Adam 
had  before  he  was  driven  out  of  the  Garden.  The  look 
of  innocence,  of  knowledge  of  good  before  there  comes 
knowledge  of  evil.  I  don't  bear  it,  though  I  think  I  had 
it  once ;  and  you  don't  bear  it,  Filmer." 

"  No,  sir." 

"  We  know  the  world.  We  have  eaten  of  the  Tree, 
and  we  have  found  some  of  the  fruit  bitter  and  some 
sweet.  One  of  the  sweetest  fruits,  Filmer,  is  the  ability 
to  recognize  innocence  and  goodness,  and  to  love  it. 
I  am  thankful  that  from  the  wreck  of  my  bodily  powers 
that  and  many  other  good  things  have  been  preserved 
to  me.  I  think  you  have  the  ability  too,  Filmer." 

"  I  believe  so,  sir." 

"  You  would  not  remain  very  long  with  me  if  it  were 
not  so,  for  you  are  most  infernally  clumsy.  I  could 
have  tied  that  tie  in  half  the  time  if  I  had  had  the  use 
of  both  my  hands.  Please  be  a  little  more  expeditious. 
I  am  hungry,  for  a  wonder.  I  suppose  it  is  the  forest 
air.  I  almost  wish,  Filmer,  that  we  had  come  here 
sooner." 

"  You  would  have  missed  the  hintercourse,  sir." 

"  Yes,  I  should  have  missed  the  hintercourse,  as  you 
say.  Possibly  I  shall  miss  it.  But  I  think  not.  My 
mind  is  stored.  And  there  will  be  great  compensations. 
My  little  Lettice — I  shall  see  her  sweet  nature  grow 
and  expand  before  my  eyes.  She  is  wise  beyond  her 
years,  and  she  is  of  the  age  to  go  straight  to  the  heart 
of  those  mysteries  which  are  hidden  from  the  eyes  of 


AT  BEECHURST  HALL  £35 

some  of  the  wisest.  This  young  wood-god  will  initiate 
her.  In  my  most  sanguine  moments  I  never  hoped  that 
I  should  have  found  so  good  a  guide.  A  girl  could  not 
have  done  it.  There  would  have  been  a  conflict  of  in- 
terests and  desires,  however  genuine  the  knowledge  and 
love.  And  a  man,  the  best  man  one  could  imagine  for 
the  purpose,  would  play  the  schoolmaster.  A  boy, 
frank  and  clean-minded,  unspotted  from  the  world — 
one  might  have  hoped  to  come  across  such  a  one  if  one 
had  thought  of  it ;  but  boys  to  whom  one  could  trust 
our  little  fairy  must  be  rare.  I  hope,  Fihner,  you  share 
my  enthusiasm  on  this  fortunate  discovery." 

"  The  young  gentleman,  so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to 
ascertain,  is  liked  by  all." 

"  We  must  make  his  life  happy,  Filmer.  We  are  for- 
tunate to  be  in  a  position  to  do  something  in  that  way. 
If  you  get  nothing  else  for  your  faithful  service  to  me, 
Filmer,  and  I  think  it  very  likely  that  you  will  not — 
for,  upon  my  word,  you  are  the  most  irritating  bungler 
in  existence — you  will  have  got  this,  that  the  best  way 
to  gain  happiness  for  yourself  is  to  do  what  you  can  to 
give  it  to  somebody  else." 

"  I've  got  the  best  example  of  it  before  my  eyes,  sir." 

"  It  is  very  nice  of  you  to  say  so,  Filmer.     I  am  quite 

sure  that  we  shall  be  happy  here.     If  we  do  miss  the 

hintercourse  there  is  plenty  to  console  us  for  it.     By 

the  way,  are  you  quite  sure  of  Dour£y?  " 

"  He  had  the  very  highest  of  recommendations,  sir." 
"  I  hope  they  were  deserved.  We  are  drawing  near 
to  a  very  great  test.  If  your  clumsy  fingers  permit 
you  to  finish  dressing  me,  in  ten  minutes  I  shall  be  be- 
ginning my  first  dinner  cooked  by  Monseiur  Dour9y. 
The  first  dinner  in  a  new  house  designed  and  prepared 
by  a  new  cook.  The  occasion  is  a  momentous  one. 


236  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

The  little  supper  last  night  was  excellent,  and  promised 
well.  But  to-night's  dinner  will  be  the  crucial  test.  If 
you  are  sure  you  have  quite  finished,  Filmer,  you  may 
take  me  downstairs.  I  hope  when  you  bring  me  up 
again  I  shall  not  have  suffered  a  great  disappointment." 

Richard  was  astir  early  the  next  morning.  The 
pony  he  had  in  his  mind  as  being  the  most  suitable  for 
little  Lettice's  use  belonged  to  a  forester  who  lived  some 
miles  away,  and  he  was  in  the  stable-yard  saddling  his 
own  pony  to  go  and  fetch  it  soon  after  seven  o'clock. 
Job,  who  had  just  arrived,  was  also  in  the  yard. 

"  I  hear  you  made  friends  along  o'  the  Squire  al- 
ready," he  remarked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Richard.  "  I  don't  think  I've  ever  met 
a  gentleman  I  liked  so  much." 

"  Ho !  "  replied  Job.  "  Seemingly  he  ain't  a  Roman 
Catholic,  as  we  was  informed." 

"  I  don't  know.    I  never  thought  about  it." 

"  It  all  come  o'  these  here  women.  'Tain't  often  I 
believe  what  they  says,  an'  never  shan't  again.  Roman 
Catholic,  indeed !  Young  Master  Harry !  I  think  I 
sees  him  bowing  down  to  graven  images.  Not  much 
I  don't ;  though  bowing  down  to  anything  in  Heaven  or 
earth's  beyond  him  now,  poor  soul." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?    Who  are  you  talking  about  ?  " 

"  Seems  to  me  I'm  going  dotty.  Though  what  with 
Acts  o'  Parliament  and  such  like,  'tain't  to  be  expected 
a  plain  man  should  have  known." 

Richard  went  into  the  harness  room  and  came  out 
with  his  bridle,  which  he  fitted  on  without  a  word. 

"  I  suppose  you  haven't  heard,  then,"  proceeded  Job, 
disappointed  of  a  question,  which  he  would  have  ignored. 

"  J'vo  heard  all  there  is  to  hear." 


AT  BEECHURST  HALL 

"  That  I'll  lay  you  haven't.  This  same  Squire  Ven- 
trey,  what  we've  all  been  talking  about  as  if  he  was  a 
heathen  foreigner,  p'raps  you'll  tell  me  who  he  really 
is?" 

"  Perhaps  you'll  tell  me." 

"  I  will.  He's  no  other  than  young  Master  Harry 
Sherwood,  what  I've  gone  bird's-nesting  and  such-like 
pranks  many's  the  time  along  of  'im,  when  I  was  a 
nipper  myself.  And  that's  gospel,  if  the  sky  was  to 
fall  and  bury  me." 

"  How  does  his  name  come  to  be  Ventrey,  then?  " 

"  That's  Act  o'  Parliament,  and  to  be  found  written 
in  the  laws  of  the  land.  Miss  Ventrey,  what  owned  the 
Hall  when  I  was  a  lad,  she  left  it  to  him  with  her  name 
and  all;  and  the  Lords  and  Commons  they  sat  in  judg- 
ment, and  had  him  named  afresh,  accordingly,  swear- 
ing on  the  book  as  is  commanded.  We  pieced  it  to- 
gether last  night,  me  and  one  or  two  more  at  '  The 
Chequers,'  after  we'd  seed  him  and  knowed  him  for  what 
he  was.  And  a  good  Squire  we  shall  have,  legs  or  no 
legs,  as  kind-hearted  a  gentleman  as  ever  drew  the 
breath  of  life,  and  bold  and  soaring  in  spirit  though 
afflicted  in  body." 

"When  did  you  see  him?  He  didn't  go  out  yester- 
day. He  told  me  so  himself." 

"  Young  Tasker,  what's  been  taken  on  at  the  gardens, 
come  into  *  The  Chequers  '  last  night.  '  Come  up  to 
the  Hall  and  see  a  great  sight,'  he  says.  A  simple  young 
man  he  is,  and  questions  was  lost  on  him,  being  exalted 
in  spirit.  '  Come  and  see  a  sight  of  splendour,'  he 
says.  So  we  followed  of  him,  and  them  as  wouldn't 
go  without  knowing  what  they  was  going  for  was  left 
behind.  When  we  got  into  the  gardens  behind  the  Hall 
— trespassin'  you  might  call  it  if  you  was  so  minded — 


238  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

there  was  three  windows  alight  from  top  to  bottom  an' 
never  a  blind  to  one  of  them.  *  Don't  show  yourselves, 
neighbours,'  says  young  Tasker,  '  but  feast  your  eyes 
on  the  glorious  sight  from  behind  this  here  bush.'  So 
we  did,  and  what  do  you  think  we  saw?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  saw  Mr.  Ventrey  eating  his  dinner." 

"  'Twas  not  like  mortal  man  a-satisfying  of  his  natu- 
ral appetite.  There  was  vessels  of  gold  and  vessels  of 
silver,  and  candles  and  fine  linen,  and  at  the  table  sat 
the  Squire  with  his  weskit  wide  open  against  the  time 
there  come  repletion.  And  a  coming  and  going  of  men- 
servants  there  was  constant  and  quiet,  three  grown  men 
to  serve  him  on  bended  knee." 

"  Oh,  come  now,  Job !  " 

"  Was  my  eyes  blessed  by  the  wondrous  sight,  or 
was  they  not?  First  one  would  hand  him  a  shining 
dish  o'  victuals  and  another  the  belongings  thereto,  and 
then  the  chief  of  them,  with  his  shirt  uncovered  to  keep 
his  master  in  countenance,  would  come  forward  with  a 
bottle  of  crystal  and  pour  out  the  precious  liquor. 
Then  they  would  stand  still  and  solemn  and  watch  every 
mouthful,  and  him  a-settin'  there  calm  and  majestic, 
chew,  chew,  chew,  like  a  king  on  his  throne.  The  multi- 
tude of  dishes  was  a  marvel  to  behold,  and  after  each 
one  was  ate  the  plate  was  whisked  away  like  magic, 
and  another  clean  and  shining  set  down  in  front  of  him. 
Once  the  good  food  didn't  please  him  and  was  took  away 
with  wl  ispers  and  melancholy  sighing.  But  the  next  dish 
was  asked  for  again  and  happiness  shone  on  the  faces  of 
the  sf  lemn  assembly.  We  was  struck  dumb  with  aston- 
ishment at  the  wonders  we  beheld  and  our  bones  was 
like  water.  Then  all  of  a  sudden  old  Jacob  Biddleton, 
whab  was  groom  in  the  stables  in  the  days  of  old  Miss 
Ventrey,  he  slaps  his  leg,  and  says :  '  By  the  Lord, 


AT  BEECHURST  HALL 

neighbours,  that  great  potentate's  young  Mr.  Harry, 
and  no  other.'  And  what  I'd  been  groping  for  in  my 
own  dark  brain  came  to  light  at  his  words,  and  the 
truth  was  revealed  to  me  at  that  moment,  '  You're 
right,  Jacob,'  says  I.  *  Cut  off  the  beard  of  the  man, 
turn  his  white  hair  black,  and  give  the  poor  soul  the 
use  of  his  limbs,  and  there's  Master  Harry  Sherwood 
before  us  all.'  And  Tom  Hendry  knew  the  man  for 
what  he  was  too,  and  Fred  Doe,  and  we  was  all  in  a 
flutter.  I  suppose  the  babel  of  our  voices  was  uplifted 
more  than  was  fit,  for  something  was  said  and  all  eyes 
in  the  room  was  turned  to  the  windows,  and  the  chief 
butler  he  come  and  looked  out,  but  we  had  drawn  back 
and  was  crouching  behind  the  bush.  Then  he  drew 
down  the  blinds  and  the  glory  inside  was  hidden  from 
us.  So  we  went  back  to  *  The  Chequers,'  and  there  we 
made  out  what  I  told  you." 

"  You're  a  funny  old  thing,  Job.  Tell  me  what  Mr. 
Ventrey  was  like  when  he  was  young." 

"  Like  none  I've  ever  seen  afore  or  since.  Sometimes 
solemn  and  quiet  and  as  wise  as  a  judge,  wi'  talk  no 
man  could  understand  outside  a  pulpit.  And  the  next 
day,  perhaps,  as  daring  and  wild  as  old  Nick  himself, 
surpassing  all  in  devilry  and  miscalling  you  to  your 
face  enough  to  bring  tears  of  mortification  to  the  eyes 
of  such  as  had  tender  spirits.  But  at  the  end  of  all  as 
loving  as  a  woman,  and  knowed  what  was  in  the  mind 
of  each  one  same  as  it  was  his  own.  A  wonderful 
character,  and  all  of  us  as  was  then  young  and  now 
is  old,  and  them  as  has  gone  down  to  the  grave  since 
them  days  of  youthhood,  wild  to  follow  him  wherever 
he  went,  and  many  a  sore  heart  left  behind  when  he 
ran  away  to  foreign  parts  and  his  name  blotted  out 
for  ever." 


240  RICHARD 

"Ran  away?" 

"Yes.  Him  and  Miss  Ventrey  had  a  misunderstand- 
ing, so  we  heard,  but  never  the  rights  of  it.  Proud  they 
•were  and  high-spirited,  both  of  them,  and  words  there 
was  occasional,  though  she  loved  him  and  he  loved  her. 
Last  we  heard  of  him  he  was  in  the  Crimea  a-fighting  the 
Prooshians,  and  never  no  more.  They  must  have  made 
it  up  before  she  died,  which  was  thirty  years  ago  and 
more,  and  why  he's  never  come  back  to  the  old  house 
till  now  is  beyond  my  knowing.  Happen  it  was  the 
stroke  that  made  him  ashamed  to  face  his  old  com- 
panions, though  a  might  ha'  known,  poor  soul,  that 
that  would  be  forgiven  him,  and  him  an  old  man 
an*  all  now,  same  as  them  he  left  in  the  pride  of 
youth." 

"  It's  very  interesting,  Job.  I'll  tell  him  that  you 
remember  him,  for  I'm  going  there  this  morning." 

"  Aye,  do  so,  Master  Richard.  I'll  be  proud  ta 
touch  my  hat  to  he,  which  is  more  than  I've  done  to 
gentle  or  simple  this  forty  year,  for  my  soul's  my  own, 
and  I  don't  hold  wi'  idolatry.  But  Master  Harry's 
different,  and  it's  a  bright  day  for  Beechurst  now  he's 
back  come  among  us." 

Richard  mounted  his  pony  and  clattered  out  of  the 
yard.  He  had  known  Job  Wilding  all  his  life,  but  had 
never  heard  him  put  so  many  words  together  in  so  short 
a  time  before,  and  had  hardly  ever  known  him  to  speak 
with  approbation,  much  less  enthusiasm,  of  any  living 
soul.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  what  he  had 
seen  and  heard  of  the  Squire  made  a  deep  impression 
upon  his  mind,  and  occupied  his  thoughts  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  almost  everything  else.  Even  little  Lettice 
seemed  of  less  importance  in  the  coming  changes  in  his 
life  than  her  grandfather,  and  with  the  clearing  up  of 


AT  BEECHURST  HALL  241 

the  cloud  between  him  and  his  own  father,  which  would 
otherwise  have  given  him  ample  food  for  thought,  he 
occupied  himself  not  at  all. 

He  found  the  owner  of  the  pony  he  had  come  for, 
extracted  and  adjusted  a  price  from  him,  and  rode  back 
with  it  to  the  vicarage,  whence  in  due  time  he  presented 
himself  at  the  Hall. 

The  weather  was  still  fine  and  warm,  and  Mr.  Ven- 
trey  was  out  in  his  chair,  being  wheeled  by  Filmer 
and  accompanied  by  Lettice.  Richard  eyed  him  some- 
what closely  as  he  greeted  him,  adjusting  his  first  im- 
pressions to  the  new  light  he  had  received  on  his  char- 
acter. Had  it  not  been  for  Job's  reminiscences  he 
would  have  been  more  surprised  than  he  was  to  find 
that  the  kindly  gravity  of  his  host's  manner  of  the 
evening  before  had  disappeared,  and  a  gay,  almost  ir- 
responsible light-heartedness  had  taken  its  place,  im- 
possible to  resist. 

"  Filmer,"  he  said,  "  you  shall  ride  the  pony  down 
to  the  gate  and  back  again.  There  is  no  one  but  you 
whose  judgment  I  can  trust  in  these  matters."  And  the 
unfortunate  Filmer's  protestations  of  incompetence 
were  brushed  away  until  he  was  on  the  point  of  mount- 
ing the  bare-backed  pony,  when  he  was  forbidden  to  do 
any  such  thing.  Richard  cantered  the  pony  down  the 
drive  and  back  again,  and  Lettice  was  lifted  on  to  it 
and  given  her  first  lesson.  Then  they  went  into  a  pad- 
dock, men  were  summoned,  and  a  low  fence  was  set 
up  and  the  pony's  jumping  capabilities  tested.  The 
Squire  was  as  keenly  interested  as  a  boy,  urged  Richard 
to  bolder  feats  and  applauded  his  successes,  and  kept 
the  children  merry  and  excited  all  the  time.  Richard 
was  fascinated  by  an  attitude  so  delightful  and,  in  his 
experience,  so  unprecedented  in  a  grown-up  person,  and 


little  Lettice's  bird-like  laughter  rose  continuously  into 
the  warm  sweet  air. 

The  pony  was  finally  approved  of,  the  groom  sum- 
moned and  given  instructions  as  to  saddlery,  and  dis- 
missed with  the  new  purchase  to  the  stables,  and  the 
trio  spent  the  rest  of  the  morning  in  the  gardens,  Rich- 
ard pushing  Mr.  Ventrey's  chair,  rice  Filmer,  dismissed 
to  other  duties. 

"  Your  father  is  coming  to  lunch,"  said  the  Squire, 
as  they  went  indoors,  and  a  shadow  descended  on  Rich- 
ard's spirit,  only  partially  lifted  by  the  remembrance  of 
what  had  happened  between  them  the  evening  before. 

But  if  his  admiration  of  his  new  friend  had  been 
great  before,  it  rose  to  the  point  of  wonderment  when 
he  found  himself  sitting  opposite  to  his  father  at  the 
luncheon  table,  and  watched  him  gradually  thawed  from 
his  usual  state  of  sombre  stiffness  through  the  stages 
of  ease  and  geniality  into  an  almost  complete  forget- 
fulness  of  himself  and  his  position  of  authority.  It 
was  not  the  fine  food  and  the  wine  that  were  offered 
to  him  that  produced  the  change,  for  the  one  he  con- 
sumed without  appreciation,  and  the  other  he  refused 
with  a  hint  of  horror  in  his  manner.  It  was  the  con- 
summate tact  of  his  host  in  whom  Richard  now  saw  a 
third  stranger  related  to  the  other  two  whose  acquaint- 
ance he  had  made  that  morning  and  the  evening  before 
only  by  his  very  manifest  kindness  and  sympathy.  Re- 
membering Job's  description  of  the  elaborate  dinner 
of  the  night  before,  Richard  was  rather  surprised  to  see 
his  host  wave  awa}'  the  wine  which  was  about  to  be 
poured  into  his  glass,  and  content  himself  through  the 
meal  with  plain  water.  He  was  still  more  surprised  to 
find  that  a  matter  of  almost  absorbing  interest  to  Mr. 
Ventrey  was  the  work  of  the  church  in  the  village  of 


AT  BEECHURST  HALL  245 

Beechurst,  a  matter  on  which  his  father  was  encouraged 
to  talk  more  freely  than  he  had  ever  known  him  do 
before.  Somehow  he  had  not  expected  to  find  the  Squire 
deeply  interested  in  religious  matters,  and  indeed  with 
the  clearness  of  perception  possessed  by  youth  it  oc- 
curred to  him  even  now  that  the  interest  was  not  quite 
so  genuine  as  his  father  evidently  believed  it  to  be.  But 
he  put  away  the  thought  as  savouring  of  disloyalty, 
for  his  admiration  of  this  delightful  and  friendly  new- 
comer was  full  and  flowing  over.  He  could  hardly 
keep  his  eyes  from  him  as  he  talked,  and  the  little  girl 
who  sat  between  them  at  the  round  table  was  almost 
as  much  engrossed  in  her  grandfather  as  himself. 

Mr.  Ventrey  was  not  the  man  to  allow  one  guest, 
even  the  most  important,  to  monopolize  his  attention. 
Richard  was  brought  into  the  conversation  and  little 
Lettice  too,  and  in  such  a  way  that  John  Baldock,  who 
would  have  ignored  both  of  them  throughout  the  meal  if 
he  had  been  allowed,  found  himself  addressing  affable 
remarks  not  only  to  his  son,  but  to  a  child  almost  too 
small  to  have  come  otherwise  into  the  focus  of  his  in- 
telligence. 

When  luncheon  was  over  Richard  and  Lettice  went 
out  into  the  garden,  while  Mr.  Ventrey  had  himself 
wheeled  into  the  library  and  asked  the  Vicar  to  accom- 
pany him. 

"  I  must  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  what  a  pleasure  it  is 
to  me  to  find  such  neighbours  near  me.  I  cannot,  unfor- 
tunately, get  very  far  away  from  the  house,  and,  if  I 
remember  rightly  there  are  none  except  your  own  within 
very  easy  reach.  When  I  used  to  come  here  many 
years  ago  the  then  Vicar  of  Beechurst  was  not  the  most 
engaging  of  companions,  and  it  is  a  great  relief  to  me 
to  find  the  old  order  changed  in  that  respect." 


244  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  My  predecessor  was  a  godless  reprobate,"  replied 
John  Baldock,  "  who  prostituted  his  high  office,  and 
was  sunk  very  deep  in  the  mire  of  self-indulgence;  and 
even,  if  I  am  rightly  informed,  committed  crimes  for 
which  he  might  have  been  made  amenable  to  the  law." 

"  I  didn't  know  that  it  was  as  bad  as  that,"  said 
Mr.  Ventrey,  "  but  he  was  certainly  not  fit  to  be  asked 
to  a  gentleman's  table.  It  is  a  matter  for  congratula- 
tion to  me  that  I  find  things  so  altered." 

"  I  may  say,  without  undue  boasting,  that  things  are 
altered  in  the  village,"  said  the  Vicar,  "  although  they 
are  far  from  being  as  I  would  have  them.  It  is  a  great 
joy  to  me,  Mr.  Ventrey,  on  my  side,  that  you  are  able 
to  see  eye  to  eye  with  me  in  these  matters  and  that  I 
may  look  forward  to  a  valuable  and  loyal  co-operation 
in  my  endeavours  to  raise  the  spiritual  condition  of 
those  committed  to  my  charge." 

"  Quite  so,"  responded  Mr.  Ventrey,  cordially.  "  I 
fear  I  shall  not  be  able  to  attend  your  services,  much  as 
I  could  have  wished  to  support  you  in  that  way.  But 
you  see  my  disabilities." 

"  Possibly,"  said  the  Vicar,  with  a  glance  at  his 
chair,  "  some  device  might  be " 

Mr.  Ventrey  did  not  appear  to  have  heard  him. 
"  But  anything  that  I  can  do  in  the  way  of  money — 
poor  as  such  a  contribution  is  beside  your  own  sacrifice 
of  time  and  labour — I  shall  consider  myself  honoured 
in  being  allowed  to  do.  And  we  must  be  friends,  Mr. 
Baldock.  You  must  come  and  see  me  whenever  you  feel 
so  inclined,  and  tell  me  how  I  can  help  you;  not  only 
what  I  can  do  for  your  parishioners,  but  if  there  is 
anything  I  can  do  for  yourself.  I  am  an  older  man 
than  you,  and  to  tell  you  the  honest  truth,  I  like 
meddling  with  my  neighbours'  affairs." 


He  spoke  lightly,  but  there  was  no  disguising  the 
sincerity  with  which  the  offer  was  made.  John  Baldock 
was  touched  by  it.  "  I  do  not  despise  kind  and  wise 
advice,"  he  said,  with  unwonted  humility,  "  although 
I  live  so  much  alone  that  it  is  not  often  it  is  avail- 
able. I  thank  you,  Mr.  Ventrey." 

"  And  your  boy,"  proceeded  the  Squire.  "  I  can- 
not tell  you  how  I  have  taken  to  him.  He  seems  to  me 
just  what  a  boy  of  that  age  ought  to  be,  frank  and 
winning  and  healthy.  You  are  very  fortunate  in  having 
such  a  son,  Mr.  Baldock." 

The  Vicar  swallowed  something,  possibly  the  knowl- 
edge that  he  had  not  considered  himself  over  fortunate 
in  his  son.  "  He  has  the  seeds  of  good  in  him,"  he 
said. 

"  He  has  the  fruits,"  corrected  the  Squire.  "  What 
are  you  going  to  make  of  him,  Mr.  Baldock?  Excuse 
the  direct  question.  I  only  ask  it  because  I  am  more 
than  usually  interested  in  him." 

"  I  hope  that  he  will  follow  in  my  footsteps  and 
give  his  life  to  preaching  the  Gospel." 

"  Ah !  well,  he  is  young  yet.  I  hope  you  will  let 
him  come  here  as  often  as  he  wishes.  It  will  not  be 
more  often  than  I  and  my  little  granddaughter  wish." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  John  Baldock.  "  As  long  as  he 
behaves  becomingly  and  does  not  trespass  on  your  kind- 
ness I  shall  be  glad  to  do  so." 

The  Vicar  soon  afterwards  took  his  departure,  and 
Mr.  Ventrey  summoned  Filmer  to  wheel  him  out  into 
the  garden. 


.CHAPTER   XIX 

THE  SQUIRE  TALKS 

IT  was  fortunate  for  Richard  that  a  better  understand- 
ing with  his  father  had  come  just  at  the  time  at  which 
his  new  friendship  began.  Otherwise  he  would  hardly 
have  been  allowed  to  spend  day  after  day  and  some- 
times long  evenings  at  the  Hall  without  having  to  sur- 
mount considerable  difficulties  at  home.  As  it  was,  he 
came  and  went  unchecked,  and  throughout  the  three 
weeks  of  his  Easter  holidays  was  so  happy  that  even  his 
father  was  touched  with  some  warmth  of  feeling  towards 
him,  for  steady  happiness  of  spirit  is  powerful  to  rouse 
affection. 

Richard  taught  little  Lettice  to  ride,  and  they  spent 
long  hours  together  in  the  forest.  She  was  a  sweet- 
natured,  confiding  little  soul,  and  the  boy  came  to  love 
her  dearly.  She  was  an  apt  pupil.  She  would  take  his 
arm  and  snuggle  up  to  his  side,  and  say :  "  Tell  me 
secrets,  Dick,"  and  Richard  would  dive  into  his  experi- 
ence and  fish  up  something  that  he  had  observed  or  as- 
similated in  his  lifelong  familiarity  with  the  ways  of 
nature. 

"  See,"  he  would  say,  "  how  do  you  think  the  great 
oaks  and  beeches  grew  so  big  ?  " 

"  The  oak  comes  from  an  acorn  and  the  beech 

"  Yes ;  but  when  the  acorns  and  the  beech  nuts  have 
planted  themselves  in  the  ground  and  sprouted  and 
grown  into  little  trees,  the  cattle  eat  them  and  the 
deer.  If  you  were  to  plant  an  oak  in  a  field  where 

246 


THE  SQUIRE  TALKS  247 

cattle  were  grazing,  you  would  have  to  protect  it, 
wouldn't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course." 

"  Very  well,  then.  Now  see  how  the  oak  is  prepared 
for  in  the  forest.  Here's  a  bramble  growing.  What 
else  is  there?  " 

"  A  thorn." 

"  Yes.  Well,  one  day  a  little  hawfinch  perched  on  a 
spray  of  the  bramble  and  dropped  the  seed  for  the 
thorn  to  grow  from.  And  why  do  you  think  that 
grew  without  being  barked  by  the  rabbits  ?  " 

The  child  thought  for  a  moment  and  clapped  her 
hands.  "  Because  the  bramble  would  prick  their  soft 
little  noses,"  she  said. 

"  Yes.  Now  we'll  go  and  find  a  bigger  thorn.  Here 
is  one ;  and  what  is  growing  with  it  ?  " 

"A  holly." 

"  Yes.  Right  in  the  middle  of  the  thorn.  Well,  one 
day,  when  the  thorn  was  growing  big  a  perky  old  black- 
bird came  and  perched  on  it  and  dropped  a  holly  berry. 
And  here  are  all  three  together.  A  thorn — sometimes 
it's  a  wild  pear  or  a  sloe — a  holly  and  an  oak.  And  the 
oak  has  grown  much  bigger  than  them  all.  That  was 
from  an  acorn  dropped  from  the  holly  by  a  wood-pigeon 
And  so  you  see  everything  has  been  protected  by  what 
grew  before  it  until  it  was  big  enough  to  look  after 
itself.  The  cattle  won't  prick  themselves  with  thorns 
and  hollies,  and  so  they  leave  the  oak  alone  till  it  grows 
too  high  to  be  reached.  Then  it  begins  to  shoulder  out 
the  thorns  and  the  hollies.  But  you  will  very  seldom 
find  a  young  oak  growing  without  one  of  them  near 
enough  to  protect  it." 

"  That's  a  beautiful  secret,  Richard.  How  did  you 
find  it  out?  " 


248  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  I  don't  know.  I  thought  about  it  till  it  came 
to  me." 

"  Tell  me  another." 

He  took  her  to  the  higher  ground,  where  the  Bag- 
shot  sand  joined  the  clay,  and  showed  her  how  the 
water,  filtering  down  to  the  heavy  ground,  oozed  out 
from  the  juncture  in  springs  and  rivulets.  Here  the 
oaks  abounded.  "  Because,"  said  the  wise  Richard, 
"  the  pigeons  come  up  here  to  drink,  and  wherever  the 
pigeons  go  they  drop  the  acorns." 

Many  other  secrets  he  told  her  as  they  roamed  the 
forest  together  during  those  happy  April  days,  and 
for  nearly  two  years  afterwards,  during  which  they 
were  inseparable  companions  in  his  hours  of  leisure.  He 
showed  her  the  seeds  of  the  sycamore  spun  round  and 
round  as  they  floated  down  the  wind  on  their  flange-like 
wings.  "  You  would  think  it  was  a  brown  moth,"  he 
said.  "And  the  birds  think  so  too,  and  swoop  down 
upon  it.  Then,  when  they  have  flown  a  little  way, 
they  find  out  their  mistake  and  drop  it,  quite  dis- 
gusted. So  the  seed  gets  carried,  and  little  sycamores 
spring  up  a  long  way  from  the  big  old  mother  syca- 
more." 

He  taught  her  the  names  of  birds,  and  their  notes, 
and  told  her  where  they  built,  so  that  her  eyes  became 
as  clever  at  spying  a  nest  and  naming  the  builder  as  his 
own.  Everything  he  had  learnt  about  the  forest  and 
its  denizens  of  the  undergrowth,  the  thicket,  and  the 
higher  dwelling  places  of  the  air  he  taught  her  in  time ; 
but  not  always  easily,  for  he  did  not  know  how  much  he 
knew  himself,  until  he  came  to  put  it  into  words,  nor 
what  was  plain  to  the  eye  and  what  had  to  be  explained. 
But  the  telling  of  it  gave  his  knowledge  a  value  in  his 
own  eyes  that  it  had  never  had  before,  and  his  love  of 


THE  SQUIRE  TALKS  249 

the  forest  and  the  secrets  it  enshrined  gathered  force 
by  expression. 

Sometimes  they  quarrelled,  for  Lettice  was  wilful, 
and  no  more  than  the  best  or  worst  of  her  sex  could 
put  up  with  a  long  period  of  unbroken  agreement.  But 
she  loved  Richard  all  the  same,  and  admired  him  with 
never  wavering  constancy  in  spite  of  her  occasional  fits 
of  antagonism,  for  he  was  the  wisest  of  mortals  in  her 
eyes  and  held  the  keys  of  all  knowledge  worth  having. 
And  he  for  his  part  would  have  gone  through  fire  and 
water  for  her,  although  even  if  she  had  been  old  enough 
to  appreciate  his  devotion,  she  would  never  have  sus- 
pected it,  for  he  treated  her  as  a  comrade  and  kept  the 
tenderness  he  felt  for  her  locked  closely  in  his  inner- 
most heart,  as  became  a  healthy-minded  boy  not  yet 
called  by  his  years  to  the  single  attachment. 

His  devotion  to  the  Squire,  though  different  in  qual- 
ity, was  no  less  strong.  He  never  quite  understood  him, 
and  indeed  the  complexities  of  Mr.  Ventrey's  character 
were  such  as  to  have  puzzled  a  more  experienced  brain 
than  his.  But  of  one  thing  at  least  there  could  be  no 
doubt,  that  whenever  Richard  presented  himself  at  the 
Hall  he  was  made  welcome,  and  that  the  invariable  kind- 
ness displayed  towards  him  sprang  from  a  genuine  liking 
and  even  affection.  The  increase  of  happiness  brought 
into  Richard's  life  by  his  friendship  with  the  Squire 
and  little  Lettice  could  hardly  be  exaggerated.  It  was 
caused  not  only  by  the  pleasant  companionship  and  the 
free  entry  into  a  beautiful,  luxuriously  ordered  house, 
with  its  manifold  interests  and  attractions,  though  these 
were  not  without  their  effect  on  a  mind  singularly  open 
to  impressions,  and  especially  so  in  comparison  with  the 
meagreness  of  the  social  life  he  had  hitherto  experi- 
enced. It  was  caused  chiefly  by  the  security  he  felt 


250  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

in  the  liking  so  plainly  shown  for  him  by  his  new 
friends.  No  one  had  ever  before  shown  that  they  took 
great  pleasure  in  his  society — no  one,  at  least,  whose 
liking  was  a  tribute  to  be  proud  of.  It  was  what  he 
wanted  to  give  him  confidence  in  himself.  His  whole 
being  craved  for  affection.  He  had  never  known  it  in 
his  home  life.  No  wonder  that  a  constant  felicity 
underlay  his  intercourse  with  those  who  showed  that 
they  considered  themselves  as  much  the  gainers  by  him 
as  he  by  them. 

If  Richard  never  quite  understood  his  friend  and 
benefactor,  it  was  not  for  any  reservations  practised 
on  him  by  Mr.  Ventrey  himself.  The  Squire  seemed  to 
take  a  delight  in  revealing  the  springs  of  his  actions 
to  him  and  inculcating  a  philosophy  of  life  which  would 
have  been  cynical  if  the  mainspring  of  his  nature  had 
not  been  that  ever  fresh  and  abounding  good  will 
towards  mankind  at  large  which  no  experience  of  in- 
gratitude and  no  insistent  demand  for  pleasure  and 
sensation  in  his  own  life  were  strong  enough  to  lessen. 
Richard  would  sometimes  dine  alone  with  him,  sharing  a 
refection  the  rarity  and  elaboration  of  which  struck 
him  every  time  he  took  part  in  it  with  scarcely  less 
wonder  than  had  been  described  to  him  by  Job  as  the 
experience  of  himself  and  his  cronies.  Then  they  would 
retire  to  the  library,  and  the  Squire  would  talk  and 
Richard  would  listen  for  an  hour  until  it  was  time  for 
him  to  go  home  to  bed. 

"  Life  is  given  to  us  to  enjoy,"  said  Mr.  Ventrey 
to  him  on  one  of  these  occasions.  "  And  I  believe  that 
every  man,  whatever  his  position,  has  means  to  his 
hands  to  enjoy  it.  But  enjoyment  is  an  art  which 
needs  as  much  education  and  practice  as  any  other. 
And  remember  this,  my  Richard,  that  there  is  no  such 


THE  SQUIRE  TALKS  251 

thing  as  solitary  enjoyment.  Give  out  as  freely  as 
you  can  to  others  and  you  will  enhance  a  hundredfold 
the  value  of  what  you  have  for  yourself." 

"  Father  says  that  our  life  here  must  be  one  of  self- 
sacrifice."  '  . 

"  I  have  the  greatest  possible  respect  for  your  fa- 
ther and  for  the  principles  by  which  his  life  is  guided. 
But  one  can  only  go  by  one's  experience,  and  mine  tells 
me  otherwise.  There  are  probably  people  in  the  world 
who  find  a  pleasure  in  self-sacrifice  for  its  own  sake, 
just  as  there  are  people  who  like  to  stick  knives  into 
themselves.  I  imagine  that  they  have  to  educate  them- 
selves up  to  these  pleasures,  as  one  does  to  every  pleasure 
that  is  worth  having.  But  I  think  that  one  is  as  un- 
natural as  the  other.  Love  I  take  to  be  a  higher  motive 
from  which  to  confer  happiness  on  others  than  self- 
sacrifice:  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  it  is  more 
satisfactory  to  receive  attentions  from  a  person  who  has 
a  regard  for  you  than  from  one  who  looks  upon  you 
as  a  convenient  object  upon  which  to  practise  his  own 
virtue.  I  would  go  even  further,  and  say  that  benefits 
conferred  without  love  are  not  benefits  at  all,  but  rather 
insults.  I  should  certainly  feel  them  to  be  so  if  they 
were  conferred  upon  me." 

"  But  it  is  not  everybody  who — who  loves  other  peo- 
ple like  you  do,  Mr.  Ventrey." 

"  Perhaps  I  have  the  capacity  for  good  will  towards 
mankind  at  large  more  highly  developed  than  some. 
But  you  do  not  suppose,  my  Richard,  that  such  a 
capacity,  if  it  exists  in  the  first  place,  does  not  need 
to  be  fostered  and  encouraged.  Everybody  possesses 
some  measure  of  it,  and  they  had  far  better  try  to 
enlarge  their  sympathies  than  begin  at  the  other  end 
and  play  the  benefactor  by  rule  without  possessing 


252  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

beneficence  of  character.  After  all,  happiness  is  the 
test — as  far  as  I  can  see,  the  only  test  that  lies  ready 
to  one's  hand.  Even  the  people  who  make  themselves 
miserable  in  this  world  of  set  purpose  do  so  because  they 
look  forward  to  another  world  in  which  their  present 
misery  will  gain  them  happiness ;  and  no  doubt  it  gives 
them  some  satisfaction  to  feel  that  their  happiness  will 
be  greater  than  that  of  us  poor  mortals  who  practise 
the  cult  of  happiness  here  and  now.  They  are  welcome 
to  their  satisfaction.  The  mistake  they  make  is  in  be- 
lieving that  all  who  seek  happiness  now  are  alike  in 
thinking  that  it  can  be  gained  by  selfish  pleasure.  We 
are  not  all  fools,  we  others.  The  wiser  among  us 
know  very  well  that  the  pursuit  of  selfish  pleasure  does 
not  bring  happiness ;  we  know  it  as  well  as  they  do,  and 
the  more  we  act  on  our  knowledge  the  happier  we  be- 
come." 

Richard  was  somewhat  puzzled  by  this  demonstration 
of  a  philosophy  which  had  some  points  of  resemblance 
with  that  to  which  he  had  been  brought  up,  but  an 
entirely  different  starting  ground.  "  Do  you  think, 
then,"  he  said,  "  that  we  may  enjoy  ourselves  as  much 
as  we  can  in  this  world  if  we  take  care  not  to  let  our 
enjoyment  interfere  with  other  people's  happiness?" 

"I  think,"  said  Mr.  Ventrey,  "that  that  is  what 
we  are  here  for.  But  we  must  not  be  content  with  a 
negative  interest  in  other  people's  happiness.  We  must 
promote  it;  and  we  must  do  so  because  it  is  perfectly 
plain  to  every  sensible  and  experienced  seeker  after  hap- 
piness for  himself  that  that  is  one  of  the  chief  means 
by  which  he  can  gain  it.  Man  is  a  social  animal.  He 
gains  by  giving.  I  have  said  enough  on  that  point.  Al- 
though it  is  the  chief  it  is  not  the  only  means  of  acquir- 
ing happiness.  You  must  cultivate  as  many  tastes  as 


THE  SQUIRE  TALKS  253 

you  can,  always  supposing  that  you  have  the  means 
and  opportunity  of  gratifying  them." 

"  But  a  poor  man  can't  afford  to  have  many  tastes." 

"  He  can  afford  to  have  the  best.  The  pleasures 
that  money  can  buy  are  never  the  greatest.  I  do  not 
say  they  are  not  worth  having,  but  they  need  the  great- 
est possible  care  in  the  using  if  they  are  to  be  perma- 
nent pleasures.  In  fact  you  must  have  educated  your- 
self into  the  position  of  an  expert  if  you  are  to  get  any 
real  pleasure  out  of  them  at  all.  None  of  your  own 
pleasures,  for  instance,  have  any  relation  whatever  to 
money.  The  pleasure  you  take  in  the  open-air  life  and 
the  beauty  of  the  world  in  which  you  live  does  not 
depend  in  the  least  upon  money.  It  has  never  cost  you 
a  penny." 

"  But  I  might  have  to  go  away  and  live  in  a  town 
where  I  could  not  enjoy  that  particular  pleasure." 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  are  exercising  your 
mind  on  the  question.  In  that  case  you  would  have  to 
adjust  your  mind  to  do  without  it,  and  find  something 
to  take  its  place." 

"  Then  money  would  come  in,  because  if  I  were 
rich  I  could  live  where  I  liked — when  I  grew  up,  I 
mean." 

"  And  lose  the  pleasure  of  work,  which,  when  you 
grow  up,  you  will  find  means  a  great  deal  more  to  you 
than  the  money  it  brings.  But  the  point  now  is  that, 
taking  yourself  as  an  example,  the  pleasures  you  actu- 
ally have  the  means  of  enjoying  do  not  depend  upon 
money,  and  they  are  good  pleasures,  which  you  will 
value  the  more  as  you  grow  older.  You  love  books, 
but  you  do  not  want  to  buy  them — yet.  You  can  read 
as  much  as  you  like,  and  you  have  already  found  out 
that  that  particular  pleasure  must  be  indulged  in  with 


254  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

discretion,  like  all  others,  as  I  have  told  you,  or  it  re- 
mains a  pleasure  no  longer.  You  have  the  capacity  for 
friendship,  and  you  have  friends  who  satisfy  it.  I 
hope,  at  least,  that  Lettice  and  I  satisfy  it." 

"  But,  Mr.  Ventrey,  I  hadn't  many  friends  before 
you  came,  and  it  is  not  very  long  since  I  had  books 
to  read." 

"  Then  you  have  had  two  additional  pleasures  con- 
ferred on  you  over  and  above  those  you  enjoyed  before. 
You  have  them  now,  and  my  point  is  that  every  one,  or 
at  any  rate  the  great  majority  of  people,  do  have 
opportunities  of  happiness  if  they  are  prepared  to  take 
them  and  to  use  them  wisely.  Please  get  it  out  of  your 
head  that  money  is  necessary  for  happiness,  or  that  it 
is  even  the  chief  means  of  obtaining  happiness.  There 
are  other  means  of  such  infinitely  greater  importance. 
Health,  for  instance.  Don't  you  think  that  I  would 
jgive  up  every  luxury  or  pleasure  that  my  money  pro- 
cures me  in  exchange  for  what  you  and  the  vast  ma- 
jority of  people  in  the  world  have,  and  make  so  little 
of — the  power  to  use  my  limbs,  to  do  things  for  myself, 
to  walk?" 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Richard  had  heard  him 
refer  to  his  affliction.  He  did  so  now  without  a  trace 
of  self-consciousness,  with  an  easy  smile,  as  if  it  were 
of  little  account.  But  the  boy  saw,  in  a  flash  of  en- 
lightenment, what  the  deprivation  he  suffered  under 
might  mean  to  such  a  man,  and  his  voice  was  a  little 
husky  as  he  replied :  "  And  yet  you  are  happy,  Mr. 
Ventrey." 

"  Yes.  I  don't  think  of  it.  I  don't  mind  saying  to 
you,  what  I  wouldn't  say  to  many  people,  because  they 
wouldn't  believe  me,  that  I  don't  mind.  At  first,  of 
course,  I  did,  One  needs  time  to  adjust  oneself  to 


THE  SQUIRE  TALKS  255 

entirely  new  conditions  of  life,  and  it  would  be  difficult 
to  imagine  a  more  complete  change  than  that  produced 
by  a  severe  stroke  of  paralysis.  What  do  you  think 
I  was  doing  when  the  blow  came  to  me  ?  I  will  tell  you, 
because  it  may  be  useful  to  you  to  remember  me  as  an 
example  of  a  man  who  at  one  time  or  another  has  had 
nearly  everything  that  made  life  worth  living  cut  away 
from  him,  and  has  yet  attained  happiness  and  content- 
ment in  spite  of  his  losses. 

"  I  was  about  to  set  out  on  a  journey  of  explora- 
tion. It  was  before  the  sources  of  the  Nile  were  dis- 
covered, and  if  this  had  not  happened  to  me  I  think  I 
should  have  had  the  honour  of  discovering  them.  This 
journey  had  been  a  dream  of  mine  for  many  years.  I 
will  tell  you  some  day  of  all  the  preparations  I  had 
made  for  it.  It  was  the  thirst  for  knowledge  and  some- 
thing unknown,  and  the  spirit  of  adventure,  both  of 
them  very  strong  with  me,  which  made  me  set  my  heart 
on  this  expedition  and  work  for  it  through  many  years. 
First  of  all  I  had  had  to  make  money,  for,  as  your 
friend  and  my  old  friend  Job  Wilding  told  you,  I  cut 
myself  loose  from  my  home  ties  at  an  early  age.  I  had 
made  the  money  not  only  for  this  enterprise  but  enough 
to  last  me  through  my  life  once  some  years  before,  and 
had  been  robbed  of  it.  Then  I  had  to  set  to  work  again 
and  I  was  fortunate  and  made  more  than  enough  again 
in  a  shorter  time.  So  everything  seemed  golden.  I 
was  in  the  very  prime  of  life,  my  experience  was  riper, 
and  my  zest  for  the  undertaking  only  increased.  Then 
came  the  stroke,  and  my  life  was  broken  into  little  frag- 
ments, for  I  had  concentrated  myself  on  one  object 
which  was  now  lost  to  me  for  ever." 

Richard  listened  breathless  to  this  recital,  delivered 
in  a  calm  even  voice.  The  Squire  stopped  for  a  moment, 


256  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

and  went  on  in  the  same  tone  of  unembittered  reminis- 
cence. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  long  it  took  me,  looking  back 
on  it  all  now,  to  adjust  myself  completely  to  such 
absolutely  changed  conditions.  I  realized  very  soon 
that  unless  I  did  so  the  rest  of  my  life  would  be  spoilt 
and  I  did  not  intend  that  that  should  be.  I  set  my 
whole  mind  to  the  task,  and  succeeded.  I  think  I  have 
even  mastered  regret,  though  that  was  not  the  work  of 
a  day,  or  of  a  year.  I  believe  there  is  nothing  that  a 
man  may  not  do  with  his  mind  if  he  sets  himself  to 
it.  I  can  only  tell  you,  my  friend  Richard,  that  you 
see  before  you  a  man  whose  whole  outlook  in  life  has 
been  changed  more  than  once,  who  has  nevertheless 
determined  that  he  will  be  happy  to  the  end  of  his  days ; 
and  who  is  happy  and  contented." 

Richard  went  home  that  night  with  something  to 
think  about.  He  was  nearing  the  age  of  sixteen,  and 
his  childhood  was  passing  away  from  him.  The  age  at 
which  a  boy  looks  forward  into  the  future  and  sees  the 
time  at  which  he  shall  have  embarked  upon  the  life  and 
work  of  his  manhood  so  far  ahead  that  the  interven- 
ing years  seem  almost  limitless,  was  coming  to  an  end 
for  him,  though  as  yet  he  possessed  nothing  more  than 
a  glimmering  of  the  responsibility  that  would  pres- 
ently lie  with  himself  as  to  his  future. 

He  thought  about  it  to-night  as  he  walked  home  under 
the  stars.  What  sort  of  life  was  it  that  was  mapped 
out  for  him?  For  the  next  three  years  he  would  go  on 
as  he  was  doing  now.  Those  years  would  be  full  of 
interest.  He  would  climb  to  the  top  of  the  little  republic 
of  his  school.  His  home  life,  always  interesting  to  him 
in  spite  of  its  limitations,  would  be  rich  in  pleasure 
because  of  this  friends  at  the  Hall.  After  that  would 


THE  SQUIRE  TALKS  £57 

come  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  and  three  or  four  years  of  a 
life  that  appeared  to  him  the  most  delightful  that  a 
young  man  could  lead.  What  should  come  later  was 
so  very  far  away  that  until  now  he  had  never  actually 
brought  his  mind  to  bear  upon  it.  He  did  so  to-night, 
not  without  effort,  for  the  remoteness  of  twenty-three 
to  a  boy  of  fifteen  is  immense.  He  pictured  his  state  as 
a  clergyman  as  resembling  that  of  his  father,  omitting 
the  preliminary  years  of  subordinate  preparation,  and 
ignoring  the  system  of  patronage  in  the  Church  of 
England  and  the  possibility  of  none  being  conferred 
upon  him. 

The  outlook  was  not  an  unpleasant  one.  Supposing 
himself  to  be  filling  a  position  such  as  that  of  his  father, 
the  pursuits  which  he  now  enjoyed  would  not  be  denied 
him.  He  would  have  to  preach  sermons,  and  he  thought 
he  might  like  to  do  so.  None  of  the  work  of  a  clergy- 
man that  he  could  call  to  mind  would  be  distasteful  to 
him.  What,  then,  was  the  reason  for  the  shrinking 
that  lay  in  the  back  of  his  mind  and  coloured  his 
thoughts?  He  recognized  that  the  shrinking  existed, 
tried  to  trace  its  cause  and  could  not.  Then  he  with- 
drew his  mind  from  its  effort.  There  were  years  and 
years  before  him  of  a  life  that  he  knew,  and  anticipated 
with  pleasure.  No  need  to  look  beyond  it — the  ability 
even  to  look  beyond  it  being  very  small  for  a  boy  of  his 
age.  He  dismissed  the  subject  without  difficulty,  and 
thought  of  Mr.  Ventrey  and  the  glimpses  he  had  given 
him  of  his  early  life. 

But  he  had  faced  the  problem  for  the  first  time, 
however  incompletely,  and  the  time  was  coming  when 
he  would  have  to  face  it  to  some  purpose. 


CHAPTER    XX 
A  COUNTESS  AND  A  CONJURER 

THERE  is  no  need  to  linger  over  the  next  two  years  of 
Richard's  life,  which  flowed  evenly.  His  friendship 
with  Mr.  Ventrey  and  little  Lettice  continued,  and  was 
responsible  for  the  chief  interests  of  his  life.  The 
Squire  lived  for  the  most  part  at  the  Hall  all  the  year 
round.  Sometimes  he  went  to  London  or  to  Paris  for 
a  few  weeks,  and  took  Lettice  with  him.  Once  he  went 
to  Egypt  for  three  months;  Richard  found  Beechurst 
very  dull  in  consequence.  Guests  came  and  went  at 
the  Hall,  and  Richard's  knowledge  of  men  and  women 
was  widened  by  meeting  people  of  every  variety  of  fame 
and  achievement,  for  most  of  them  to  whom  the  Squire 
extended  his  hospitality  were  of  some  account  in  the 
world,  and  he  saw  to  it  that  the  boy  should  meet  them 
all.  Some  of  them  took  a  good  deal  of  notice  of  him, 
and  some  ignored  him.  Some  would  talk  of  their  experi- 
ences, and  he  would  listen  open-mouthed.  Others,  per- 
haps the  most  famous,  refused  to  talk  at  all,  at  least 
about  themselves,  but,  knowing  who  they  were  and 
what  they  had  done,  he  regarded  them  with  no  less  awe. 
A  guest  who  came  more  often  than  any  one  else  to 
the  Hall,  and  whom  Richard  disliked,  was  Mr.  Ventrey's 
sister-in-law  and  Lettice's  aunt,  the  Dowager  Countess 
of  Pontypridd.  She  was  a  tall,  bony  woman  with  a 
high-bridged  nose,  and  surveyed  the  world  through  a 
pair  of  tortoise-shell  glasses  attached  to  a  sort  of  tor- 
toise-shell paper  knife  in  a  way  Richard  felt  to  be 
offensive.  He  thought  she  was  not  unlike  his  Aunt 


A  COUNTESS  AND  A  CONJURER       259 

Henrietta  Moggeridge,  but  that  lady  could  have  given 
her  many  points  in  vivacity  and  intelligence,  for  Lady 
Pontypridd's  contributions  to  any  conversation  in 
which  she  might  take  part  were  not  of  a  lively  order, 
and  usually  bore  upon  her  own  importance  in  the  scheme 
of  things.  This  seemed  to  be  the  only  topic  which  really 
interested  her.  Richard  thought  it  rather  surprising 
that  Mr.  Ventrey  should  care  to  have  her  in  the  house  so 
much  and  treat  her  so  courteously  as  he  did  when  she 
was  there.  Although  she  was  always  coldly  civil  to 
himself,  he  suspected  her  of  disliking  him,  and  his  sus- 
picion was  well  founded.  More  than  once  she  had  taken 
the  Squire  to  task  for  allowing  him  to  be  so  much  in  the 
company  of  his  granddaughter.  She  did  so  once  as  they 
were  sitting  in  the  garden  at  the  back  of  the  house  and 
Richard  and  Lettice  were  approaching  them,  but  still 
some  way  off,  from  one  of  their  long  journeys  of  ex- 
ploration in  the  forest. 

"  I  cannot  think,  my  dear  Harry,"  said  Lady  Ponty- 
pridd,  "  why  you  should  allow  Lettice  to  be  so  con- 
stantly with  that  boy  of  the  Vicar's.  Surely  he  is  not 
a  fit  companion  for  her." 

"  Richard  Baldock,  Louisa,"  replied  the  Squire,  "  is 
a  gentleman  for  whom  I  have  the  greatest  possible 
regard.  For  the  last  year  he  has  been  my  own  most 
constant  companion.  I  cannot  permit  you  to  disparage 
one  of  my  intimate  friends." 

"  I  wish  you  would  kindly  be  serious  for  a  moment, 
Harry.  I  feel  deeply  upon  this  subject,  and  intend 
to  speak  about  it.  I  am  to  introduce  Lettice  when  the 
time  comes,  and  I  have  a  right  to  ask  that  she  shall  not 
be  brought  up  to  form  connections  which  I  should  cer- 
tainly not,  in  my  position,  allow  her  to  form  when  she 
comes  under  my  charge." 


260  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  If  you  never  introduce  her  to  any  one  with  a  less 
attractive  character  than  that  of  my  friend  Richard, 
Louisa,  I  shall  be  very  well  satisfied." 

"  I  dare  say  the  boy's  character  is  good.  I  don't 
know  anything  about  it.  It  seems  to  me  that  he  pre- 
sumes, but  I  dare  say  that  is  your  fault.  It  is  his 
social  status  I  object  to.  It  makes  him  unfitting  to  be 
the  constant  companion  of  a  girl  with  Lettice's  pros- 
pects and  connections.  In  the  position  which  I  occupy, 
a  position  which  I  have  no  desire  to  overrate — I  beg 
your  pardon,  Harry? — I  repeat,  a  position  whieh  I 
have  no  desire  to  overrate,  but  which  is  a  well-known 
and  well-established  one,  I  do  not  wish  that  the  girl 
should  come  to  me  hampered  by  undesirable  ties.  You 
would  not  wish  her  to  marry  this  boy,  I  suppose,  the 
son  of  a  poor  country  clergyman  of  neither  birth  nor, 
so  far  as  I  can  judge,  manners?  " 

"  The  question  of  Lettice's  marriage  is  not  a  very 
pressing  one  at  present,  Louisa.  She  is  not  yet  nine 
years  old." 

"  The  question  of  a  girl's  marriage  is  always  press- 
ing. It  may  very  well  be  thought  of  before  she  leaves 
the  cradle." 

"  We  have  not  time  to  discuss  the  question  as  fully 
as  you  would  wish  to,  Louisa,  unless  you  would  care  to 
discuss  it  in  the  presence  of  the  parties  concerned.  It 
may  save  trouble  if  I  say  at  once  that  I  do  not  want 
to  discuss  it  at  all.  Lettice  gets  nothing  but  good 
from  her  companionship  with  Richard  Baldock,  and  as 
long  as  I  am  alive  they  will  see  as  much  of  each  other 
as  he  or  she  or  I  could  desire.  If  she  ever  comes  to  be 
entirely  under  your  charge  you  will  act  as  you  please. 
You  will  oblige  me  by  taking  this  decision  as  final." 
.,  Lady  Pontypridd  did  so,  as  far  as  direct  remon- 


A  COUNTESS  AND  A  CONJURER 

strance  with  her  brother-in-law  was  concerned,  but  her 
manner  did  not  increase  in  geniality  towards  Richard, 
who  escaped  contact  with  her  as  far  as  he  was  able. 
Lettice  confided  to  him  that  she  did  not  love  her  aunt. 
"  Interfering  "  was  the  word  that  occurred  most  often 
in  her  strictures.  But,  although  Lady  Pontypridd's 
visits  were  frequent,  they  were  never  very  lengthy,  and 
the  disturbing  influence  she  exercised  when  at  the  Hall 
removed  itself  with  her  departure. 

Throughout  the  two  years  of  which  we  are  now  tak- 
ing occasional  glimpses  Richard's  home  life  was  serene. 
It  seemed  to  him,  when  he  thought  about  it,  that  his 
father  had  altered — was  a  different  man  from  the  one 
who  had  lectured  and  worried  him  in  his  childhood. 
There  was  certainly  a  more  agreeable  accord  between 
them.  It  was  probably  chiefly  owing  to  the  fact  that 
with  growth  in  years  Richard's  character  was  showing 
increasing  self-reliance  and  independence,  and  that  he 
was  no  longer  an  object  upon  whom  petty  interference 
could  safely  be  exercised. 

But  John  Baldock  had  changed.  Every  man  changes 
in  character  as  the  years  go  over  his  head,  and  gets 
either  better  or  worse.  With  all  his  drawbacks  of  tem- 
perament and  mistaken  views,  his  mind  was  honestly 
set  upon  righteousness  as  he  understood  it,  and  his 
reward  had  come  with  advancing  years  in  a  riper 
knowledge  of  good  and  evil.  No  doubt,  confronted  with 
the  development  of  a  nature  stronger  and  saner  than 
his  own,  he  had  learnt  from  it,  though  he  might  have 
been  surprised  to  hear  that  he  could  learn  anything 
from  his  son,  and  the  standards  by  which  he  had 
hitherto  judged  the  world  were  shifting. 

After  the  first  few  weeks,  during  which  he  thought 
he  had  found  in  the  Squire  a  man  entirely  after  his  own 


262  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

heart,  the  Vicar  had  gradually  withdrawn  from  his 
intimacy  at  the  Hall.  He  was,  perhaps,  the  only  man 
in  Beechurst  whose  opinion  of  Mr.  Ventrey  was  not  of 
the  highest.  The  Squire  puzzled  him.  He  could  not 
close  his  eyes  to  his  genuine  benevolence  nor  to  the 
intrepidity  with  which  he  faced  his  restricted  life;  but 
he  failed,  although  he  made  earnest  endeavours,  to  trace 
these  good  qualities  to  the  source  from  which  he  was 
assured  they  alone  could  spring.  Mr.  Ventrey  was  not 
a  religious  man,  as  John  Baldock  understood  religion, 
but  he  accused  him  in  his  mind  of  having  tried  to  palm 
himself  off  as  such  during  the  early  stages  of  their 
acquaintance.  He  regarded  him  with  watchful  sus- 
picion, afterwards  almost  with  aversion,  but  kept  his 
thoughts  to  himself,  and  not  until  a  later  date  allowed 
his  antagonism  to  appear. 

Richard's  relations  with  John  Meaking,  to  use  the 
language  of  the  King's  Speech,  continued  friendly.  He 
still  frequented  the  shop  in  Abbey  Street  during  his 
spare  hours  in  Storbridge,  although  he  now  looked 
upon  novels  with  suspicion  and  severely  restricted  him- 
self in  their  consumption.  He  was  able  to  do  his  friend 
a  very  good  turn,  for  he  induced  Mr.  Ventrey,  who 
was  a  large  buyer  of  books,  to  make  his  purchases 
through  the  medium  of  Mr.  Gannett ;  and,  since  the 
Squire  could  not  go  to  the  shop,  Meaking  was  required 
to  pay  him  frequent  visits  with  parcels  of  books  for 
inspection,  and  thereby  gained  experience  in  the  wants 
of  customers  of  the  more  intelligent  order,  as  well  as  an 
agreeable  series  of  outings. 

Mr.  Gannett's  business  continued  to  prosper,  and 
Mr.  Gannett's  assistant  with  it.  The  shop  had  been 
enlarged  by  the  inclusion  of  a  small  adjoining  house, 
the  upper  part  of  which  Meaking  occupied  as  part 


A  COUNTESS  AND  A  CONJURER       263 

reward  for  his  labours,  and  provided  a  home  therein  for 
his  mother,  which,  if  it  were  not  as  good  as  her  ambi- 
tion aspired  to,  was  a  good  deal  better  than  the  one  she 
had  hitherto  occupied.  His  enterprise  was  rather  re- 
markable in  its  results,  for  Storbridge  was  a  small 
town  and  could  hardly  have  been  expected  to  maintain 
a  thriving  retail  bookseller.  But  he  had  concentrated 
his  energies  on  securing  customers  from  the  surround- 
ing neighbourhood,  studied  their  requirements  so  care- 
fully and  maintained  such  an  attractive  exhibition  of 
books  in  the  shop  itself,  that  he  drove  a  thriving  trade, 
and  Mr.  Gannett  became  known  vicariously  as  one  of 
the  most  understanding  booksellers  in  the  provinces. 

Meaking  did  not  long  continue  to  double  the  parts  of 
salesman  and  errand  boy.  He  very  soon  had  an  assist- 
ant as  well  as  a  boy  under  him,  and  even  then  found 
ample  scope  for  his  activities. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  with  the  way  things  have  turned 
out  now?"  Richard  asked  him  one  day,  about  a  year 
after  he  had  come  to  Storbridge. 

"  With  the  way  things  have  turned  out  here  I'm 
more  than  satisfied,"  he  replied.  "  I  couldn't  have  be- 
lieved that  I  should  have  done  what  I  have  in  the  time. 
But  there's  a  limit,  and  I've  reached  it.  There's  no 
scope  for  extending  the  business  farther  in  a  little 
place  like  this,  though  we're  exceptionally  fortunate  in 
having  such  a  large  area  to  draw  on  outside.  Of 
course,  I  shall  succeed  to  the  business  when  Mr.  Gan- 
nett dies,  and  I  don't  suppose  he'll  last  many  years 
longer.  But  I  expect  I  shall  have  to  make  a  change, 
though  I'm  happy  enough  where  I  am." 

"Then  why  on  earth  make  a  change?"  asked  Rich- 
ard, not  unnaturally. 

"  It's  ambition,  my  boy.     It  leads  you  on,  and  you 


264  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

can't  help  yourself.  I  know  I  can  do  big  things  if  I 
get  the  opportunity,  and  there's  something  urges  me  to 
get  it  and  go  and  do  them." 

"What  about  the  forest?  You  threw  up  opportuni- 
ties deliberately  on  purpose  to  come  back  to  it.  Have 
you  got  tired  of  it  already?  " 

"  You  know  quite  well  I  haven't.  It's  the  passion  of 
my  life,  and  I  don't  care  who  knows  it.  But  I'm  not 
sure  that  I've  earned  it  yet.  Every  man's  got  to  do 
the  work  that's  in  him  wherever  it  leads  him.  If  he 
don't,  he  spoils  his  pleasure.  I  may  have  to  go  away 
from  here,  but  I  should  come  back  after  I'd  got  as  far 
as  I  could  expect  to  get.  I'd  never  lose  sight  of  the 
forest.  It'd  always  be  in  my  mind,  wherever  I  was,  and 
I  shall  hope  to  spend  my  last  days  here." 

"  When  you  are  too  old  to  enjoy  it.  I'd  rather  have 
it  now  and  make  less  money." 

"  It  isn't  making  money.  You  don't  understand 
these  things.  You  haven't  got  a  career  before  you 
like  I  have." 

"  I'm  going  to  be  a  clergyman.  That's  just  as  much 
of  a  career  as  being  a  bookseller." 

"  It  is  to  some  people ;  it  isn't  to  you.  You  don't 
know  what  a  career  is.  Do  you  think  of  what  you're 
going  to  do  when  you're  a  clergyman  every  hour  of  the 
day  and  night  ?  " 

"  I  generally  go  to  sleep  at  night ;  but  I  can't  say 
I  think  much  about  it  yet  even  in  the  day." 

"  Of  course  you  don't;  and,  if  you  think  about  it  at 
all,  you  just  think  that  you'll  be  able  to  have  rather  a 
good  time.  You  don't  think  about  the  work  you're 
going  to  do.  I  don't  blame  you,  either.  You,  as  you 
are,  are  never  going  to  be  a  clergyman — at  least,  I 
hope  you  won't.  If  ever  you  are,  you'll  be  quite  a 


A  COUNTESS  AND  A  CONJURER       265 

different  person.  Then  nothing  will  be  of  any  impor- 
tance except  your  work.  You  won't  care  where  it  takes 
you.  And  that's  what  I  feel  about  mine.  I  don't  even 
feel  as  if  it  was  for  me  to  decide.  When  the  time 
comes  for  me  to  go  away  from  here  I  shall  go,  and  not 
even  the  forest  will  keep  me." 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  won't  go  yet  awhile." 

"  I  shan't.  I've  got  that  clear,  at  any  rate.  I  shall 
stay  here  as  long  as  Mr.  Gannett  lives,  and,  when  I've 
succeeded  to  his  business,  then  I  shall  have  to  think 
about  it  and  do  what  I'm  led  to  do.  And  I  should 
just  like  to  say  this  to  you,  Dick  Baldock.  There  will 
be  a  place  for  you  in  whatever  business  I've  got,  so  long 
as  it  has  to  do  with  books,  as  I  expect  it  will.  You 
may  think  that  you  won't  want  it  now,  and  very  likely 
you  won't.  But  remember  that  it'll  be  there  waiting  for 
you  if  you  like  to  take  it,  and  that's  what  I  wouldn't 
say  to  anybody  else  in  the  world." 

Richard  thanked  him  in  suitable  terms,  and  took 
his  departure. 

One  afternoon,  about  a  year  later  than  this,  there 
was  a  charity  entertainment  in  the  Town  Hall  at  Stor- 
bridge.  The  school  had  an  unexpected  half-holiday; 
it  was  a  wet  day,  and  Richard  had  a  few  shillings  in 
his  pocket.  This  concurrence  of  circumstances  led  him 
to  one  of  the  cheaper  seats  in  the  hall,  prepared  thor- 
oughly to  enjoy  the  varied  performance  which  the  com- 
mittee of  the  charity  aforesaid  had  provided  for  its 
patrons.  This  included  songs,  serious  and  comic,  in- 
strumental music,  a  company  of  bell-ringers,  and  a 
ventriloquist  billed  in  important  capital  letters  as  Lieu- 
tenant Joy. 

When  the  curtain  rose  for  this  item  of  the  entertain- 
ment, it  revealed  the  usual  ventriloquist's  stock-in-trade, 


£66  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

dummy  figures  of  a  leering  old  man  and  woman  and  two 
most  unpleasant-featured  children  sitting  on  a  row  of 
chairs  facing  the  audience.  This  amiable  party  was 
immediately  joined  by  a  clean-shaven  gentleman  in  a 
full-dress  naval  uniform,  in  whom  to  his  intense  surprise, 
Richard  recognized  his  old  friend  and  adviser,  Mr.  Bliss, 
his  aunt's  butler. 

The  performance  was  an  excellent  one.  Mr.  Bliss,  or 
Lieutenant  Joy,  had  the  most  complete  control  over  his 
facial  muscles,  and  his  ventriloquial  voice  was  wonder- 
fully natural,  whether  it  was  applied  to  the  shrewish 
remarks  of  the  old  woman,  the  querulous  replies  of  the 
old  man,  or  the  surprising  impertinences  of  the  two 
disagreeable  children.  Richard  had  never  heard  a  ven- 
triloquist before,  and  was  lost  in  admiration  of  the  feats 
performed  by  his  one-time  friend.  He  was  also  very 
anxious  to  speak  to  him,  and  when  his  turn,  vociferously 
applauded,  was  over,  sacrificed  the  rest  of  the  enter- 
tainment, which  by  now  was  nearly  ended,  and  went 
round  to  the  back  of  the  hall  to  wait  till  Lieutenant 
Joy  should  come  out. 

It  was  Mr.  Bliss  who  came  out  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
later,  and  who  recognized  Richard  instantly,  and  shook 
him  very  warmly  by  the  hand. 

"  I  saw  you,"  he  said.  "  I  looked  out  for  you,  know- 
ing you  lived  in  these  parts,  but  hardly  expected  to  be 
so  fortunate.  There's  nobody  I'd  rather  have  met. 
Now  step  into  this  fly — they'll  bring  out  my  boxes  di- 
rectly— and  drive  with  me  up  to  the  station.  We  shall 
have  time  for  a  cup  of  tea  there  before  my  train  goes. 
I've  got  to  get  on  to  Brigmouth — performing  there  to- 
night— winter  gardens — most  fashionable  audience. 
Well,  upon  me  word,  I'm  pleased  to  see  you,  and  looking 
so  well,  and  grown,  too.  Who'd  have  thought — now, 


steady  with  those  boxes — that's  right,  here's  twopence 
for  you.  Step  in,  Mr.  Baldock — station,  cabby,  down 
platform." 

Mr.  Bliss  was  the  bustling  man  of  tricks,  kindliness, 
and  harmless  self-importance  whom  Richard  remem- 
bered. Already  it  was  difficult  to  recall  the  other  side 
of  him,  which  he  also  remembered,  or  to  bend  imagina- 
tion to  being  called  "  sir  "  by  him. 

"  Well,  you  see,  Mr.  Baldock,"  he  said,  when  they 
were  seated  side  by  side  in  the  fly  and  driving  towards 
the  station,  "  I've  cut  the  painter.  No  more  positions 
of  responsibility  in  other  people's  households,  though 
I  took  the  small  precaution  of  slightly  changing  my 
name,  in  case  a  public  life  should  prove  a  failure,  and  I 
might  have  to  go  back  to  it.  No  chance  of  that  now, 
though.  I'm  full  up  of  engagements,  and  climbing  to 
the  top  of  the  tree.  Now,  tell  me  honestly,  have  you 
ever  seen  a  ventriloquy  artist  to  beat  me?  " 

"  I've  never  seen  one  at  all  before,"  replied  Richard, 
"  but  I  can't  imagine  a  better.  I  think  it's  wonderful. 
But  what  about  the  juggling?  This  is  quite  a  new  line, 
isn't  it?" 

"  It  is,"  replied  Mr.  Bliss.  "  It's  a  funny  thing.  I 
spent  many  years  of  hard  work  preparing  for  the  jug- 
gling profession,  and  started  in  that  line  when  I  threw 
up  my  appointment  with  her  ladyship — your  aunt,  you 
know.  But  I  don't  mind  acknowledging  to  you  now, 
though  I  wouldn't  have  done  a  year  ago,  that  I  should 
never  have  risen  far  in  it.  It's  overstocked  for  one 
thing;  and  I  don't  think  I've  got  the  originality  to 
invent  new  exhibitions.  You  can't  do  much  without 
that.  I  wasn't  getting  good  engagements ;  and,  in  fact, 
I  was  spending  money  I'd  saved,  instead  of  earning 
more.  Of  course,  being  used  to  a  good  table  all  my 


268  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

life,  I  live  a  bit  higher  than  most  artists.  I'm  looked 
up  to,  I  assure  you,  in  the  profession ;  and  it  would 
surprise  most  of  them  to  know  that  I'd  ever  heen  in 
what's  called  service,  let  alone  what  I  told  you  of  my 
early  days.  I  know  the  secret's  safe  with  you,  and  you 
won't  let  on.  Of  course,  all  ventriloquists  are  lieu- 
tenants, but  they  think  I'm  a  real  retired  naval  officer. 
I  don't  undeceive  'em,  though  I  don't  tell  lies  about  it. 
It's  good  for  business. 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  how  it  was.  I  was  a  bit  down  in 
my  luck  once — not  poor,  you  know,  I'd  got  plenty  of 
money  put  by,  but  beginning  to  think  I  wasn't  going  to 
get  on.  I  was  in  a  show  with  a  ventriloquist,  and,  with- 
out thinking  much  about  it,  just  careless  like,  I  tried 
to  imitate  him.  You'd  hardly  believe  it,  but,  with  next 
to  no  practice  at  all,  I  found  I  was  what  you  might  call 
a  ventriloquist  born.  It  came  as  easy  to  me  as  talking 
natural.  Within  a  month — actually  as  short  a  time  as 
that — I'd  thrown  over  the  juggling  and  was  booking 
engagements  for  a  new  and  refined  ventriloquy  turn. 
And  I  never  look  back  from  that  moment.  Now 
that's  what  I  call  a  remarkable  thing.  Years  and 
years  of  labour  and  application  wasted,  and  complete 
success  at  once  in  a  line  I'd  never  so  much  as  thought 
of.  Don't  you  think,  in  your  experience,  it's  remark- 
able? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Richard,  "  it  rather  goes  against  work 
with  an  object." 

Mr.  Bliss  eyed  him  askance.  "  You  haven't  forgotten 
that,  then,"  he  said. 

"  No,  I  thought  it  was  very  good  advice." 

"  And  so  it  is.  You  stick  to  it,  Mr.  Richard.  Don't 
be  led  away  by  what's  happened  to  me.  Mine's  natural 
gift,  discovered  by  chance.  That  alters  things.  And 


A  COUNTESS  AND  A  CONJURER       269 

you  don't  suppose  that  even  that's  turned  into  a  career 
without  work,  do  you?  " 

"I  suppose  not.     Do  you  have  to  practise  much?" 

"  Not  for  the  voice.  That  comes  natural,  as  I  told 
you.  But  fresh  gag's  got  to  be  invented.  It  doesn't 
do  to  stand  still.  Now,  didn't  you  think  that  the  dia- 
logue was  crisp  and  mirth-provoking?" 

"  I  thought  it  was  jolly  funny,"  replied  Richard. 
"  Did  you  make  it  up  yourself?  " 

"  Well,  don't  tell  any  one  else,  but — no,  I  haven't  got 
the  invention  for  it.  That's  my  weak  point.  I  employ 
a  literary  man  to  do  it  for  me.  An  Oxford  scholar  he 
is,  and  if  I  wanted  a  dialogue  in  Greek  or  Hebrew,  he'd 
do  it  for  me  just  as  easy  as  English." 

"  You're  rather  lucky  to  find  a  man  like  that." 

"  Ye — es.  And  he's  lucky  too.  I  treat  him  liberally. 
He — well,  I  don't  mind  telling  you — he  drinks.  I  first 
met  him  in  a  bar.  In  fact,  he's  pretty  far  gone.  But 
the  stuff  that  man  knocks  out ! — when  he's  sober.  It 
would  make  the  fortune  of  Punch.  I've  sometimes  laid 
on  my  bed  and  ached  with  laughter  over  it.  Some  of 
it  I  can't  use  in  mixed  assemblies — though  for  smoking 
concerts  it's — well,  it's  unique.  I  keep  him  at  it.  I've 
got  pages  and  pages  of  jokes  locked  away  at  home — all 
paid  for.  If  I  can  keep  him  going  for  another  year  I 
shall  have  enough  to  last  me  my  lifetime.  Ah,  here  we 
are  at  the  station.  Now,  I'll  just  run  and  get  a  ticket, 
and  then  we'll  go  and  have  a  cup  of  tea  and  talk  a  bit 
more.  We've  got  nearly  half  an  hour." 

"  I've  told  you  enough  about  myself,"  said  Mr.  Bliss, 
when  they  were  seated  opposite  one  another  at  a  marble- 
topped  table  in  the  station  refreshment  room.  "  My 
foot's  well  up  the  ladder,  and  I  shall  be  performing  in 
royal  palaces  before  I'm  dead.  It's  a  fine  life,  Mr. 


270  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

Richard — none  like  it.  I  assure  you  I  consider  myself 
a  fortunate  and  happy  man.  I — this  tea  isn't  fit  for 
the  pig-tub.  Hi !  waitress !  " 

But  for  this  fortunate  interruption  Mr.  Bliss  would 
probably  have  gone  on  talking  about  himself  without 
interruption  until  his  train  left  the  station.  But  dur- 
ing the  short  altercation  which  ensued  Richard  decided 
that  Mr.  Bliss  had  talked  enough  about  himself,  and 
when  he  was  again  available  for  conversation  asked 
him  when  he  had  left  Paradine  Park. 

"  We  didn't  go  there  much  after  the  marriage,"  said 
Mr.  Bliss.  "  We  resided  mostly  at  Bursgath  Hall — 
Sir  Franklin's  place  in  Yorkshire.  There  were  great 
doings  there.  You  never  saw  a  fine  place  so  tumble- 
down, not  unless  it  was  quite  a  ruin.  It  took  us  the 
best  part  of  a  year  just  to  get  the  house  set  right.  Her 
ladyship  she  enjoyed  that  thoroughly.  Speaking  as 
a  professional  man  I  can  now  say  what  I  couldn't  have 
said  when  we  met  last,  and  I  was  in  a  confidential  posi- 
tion with  regard  to  her.  The  fact  is  in  her  character 
she  must  have  something  going  on  to  occupy  her 
thoughts — something  big.  She  can't  just  settle  down 
and  lead  an  ordinary  life ;  though,  poor  thing,  if  all  I 
hear's  true,  she'll  be  having  to  draw  her  horns  in  a  bit 
now." 

"  Why,  what  has  happened?  " 

"  What  any  one  with  eyes  in  his  head  would  have 
expected  to  happen.  Sir  Franklin,  he's  a  very  pleasant 
gentleman  to  live  with.  Never  an  ill  word  from  him, 
and  up  to  a  certain  point  considerate  for  others,  and 
specially  for  those  in  a  subordinate  position.  Well 
liked  he  was  in  the  household — a  good  deal  better  than 
young  Mr.  Syde,  who  was  arrogant  and  domineering 
to  the  servants — though  not  to  me ;  I  wouldn't  have  put 


A  COUNTESS  AND  A  CONJURER       271 

up  with  it.  Well,  as  I  was  going  to  say,  her  ladyship, 
she's  rich — very  rich.  I  should  be  afraid  to  say  how 
rich,  but  in  an  ordinary  way  money's  no  object  with 
her  at  all.  Thousands  and  thousands  must  have  gone 
on  restoring  Bursgath  Hall,  and  on  the  gardens  and 
stables,  and  after  that  on  the  estate.  Oh,  thousands 
and  thousands — enough  to  make  you  or  me  rich  for 
life.  Then  there  was  a  house  in  town  bought  and  fur- 
nished from  top  to  bottom,  regardless.  A  fine  house — 
Grpsvenor  Square,  no  less.  Money  must  have  been 
poured  out  like  water  that  first  year,  and  I've  not  the 
slightest  doubt  there  were  debts  of  Sir  Franklin's  to 
settle  too,  and  for  a  pretty  penny.  Well,  she  didn't 
turn  a  hair  over  it.  In  fact  she  was  as  busy  and  as 
pleased  as  could  be  all  the  time.  And  he  behaved  well 
to  her,  too.  Until  he's  crossed  in  his  own  pleasures 
there's  no  more  polite  and  thoughtful  gentleman  than 
Major-General  Sir  Franklin  Syde,  K.C.B." 

"  And  Laurence?  " 

"  Mr.  Laurence  Syde  isn't  old  enough  to  sink  his  own 
feelings  so  much  as  his  distinguished  father,  but  he's 
learning  it  fast.  She  took  to  him  wonderfully.  Well, 
you  saw  that  when  you  were  at  Paradine  Park,  and 
it  didn't  go  off  as  you  might  have  expected,  for  I  won't 
hide  from  you  that  her  ladyship  is  very  changeable 
in  her  likes  and  dislikes.  She  must  be  amused,  you  see, 
and  kept  occupied  with  something  fresh.  However,  as 
I  say,  Mr.  Syde,  he  knows  how  to  please  her,  and  he 
did  please  her.  Not  very  difficult,  as  he  was  only  at 
home  in  his  holidays,  and  had  everything  he  wanted 
almost  before  he  could  ask  for  it.  He's  in  clover,  that 
young  gentleman,  and  he's  sensible  enough  to  know  it 
and  see  that  he  keeps  there." 

"  Then  what  is  wrong  with  them  ?  " 


272  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  Well,  it's  the  racing.  I  think  she  was  frightened  of 
it  from  the  first,  because  Sir  Franklin,  he's  got  through 
two  fortunes  over  it  already,  and,  after  all,  it's  the 
stupidest  way  of  getting  rid  of  money  that  you  could 
hit  on.  The  second  year,  when  the  best  part  of  the  work 
had  been  done  in  getting  the  houses  as  they  wanted 
them,  there  was  a  yacht  bought.  Her  ladyship  didn't 
care  for  it  much,  and  of  course  a  yacht's  a  big  expense. 
I  happened  to  be  in  the  room  when  it  was  settled  they 
were  to  have  it.  She  was  too  careless  to  hide  what  she 
had  to  say  when  I  was  there,  or  the  other  servants  either 
for  that  matter.  '  Well,  we've  spent  an  enormous  lot 
of  money,  Franklin,'  she  says,  '  during  the  last  year, 
and  we  really  ought  to  wait  for  the  yacht.  But  if  you 
want  it  we  will  have  it.  I  don't  care  much  about  it 
myself;  but,  as  long  as  it  isn't  the  stud  again,  I  don't 
mind  what  I  spend  to  make  you  happy.'  She  was  de- 
voted to  him,  you  know ;  treated  him  like  a  child  who 
always  wanted  new  toys.  And  that's  just  what  he  was, 
and  only  the  most  expensive  toys  that  would  suit  him. 
So  they  bought  the  yacht  and  we  went  to  Cowes  that 
summer,  and  then  for  a  cruise  up  the  West  Coast,  and 
that  kept  us  quiet  for  that  year.  Next  year  there  was 
a  moor  in  Scotland  to  keep  him  quiet,  and,  of  course, 
all  the  other  expenses  going  on  just  the  same.  How- 
ever, she  was  so  rich  that  I  really  don't  think  all  that 
mattered,  and  of  course  she  must  have  saved  a  lot  since 
Mr.  Moggeridge  died.  At  the  end  of  that  year  I  left, 
and  struck  out  for  myself,  but  things  seemed  to  me  then 
to  be  getting  a  little  strained  between  them ;  and  I  know 
the  racehorses  had  been  mentioned  more  than  once,  for 
Sir  Franklin  was  set  on  that  form  of  folly,  and  I  heard 
him  arguing  with  her  that  it  was  the  best  way  of  making 
money,  if  it  was  done  as  he  meant  to  do  it." 


A  COUNTESS  AND  A  CONJURER       273 

"  He  does  keep  racehorses,  doesn't  he?  I've  seen  his 
name  in  the  paper." 

"  Yes,  she  gave  way.  I  don't  hear  much  of  them  now, 
because  in  my  position  I  can't  very  well  correspond 
with  those  in  domestic  service;  but  I  did  see  Hart,  the 
coachman,  last  year,  and  he  said  the  talk  was  that  he 
began  to  get  nasty  to  her;  and  as  she  couldn't  stand 
that,  being  fond  of  him,  she  gave  in.  Sir  Franklin  got 
his  stud,  and  we'll  hope  he's  pleased  with  it.  He's  never 
won  a  big  race  yet,  and  I  don't  believe  he  ever  will. 
He's  one  of  the  unlucky  ones.  But  it's  a  patent  sink 
for  money,  and  Hart  told  me  that  he  was  running 
through  hers  at  a  gallop.  The  yacht  and  the  moor's 
been  put  down,  and  that's  a  sign  that  it's  telling.  I 
don't  know  what'll  go  next ;  but  if  he  don't  ruin  her 
before  he's  done,  he'll  make  a  great  deal  of  difference 
in  her  income  and  way  of  living.  I  think  it's  a  crool 
shame,  myself.  That  money  ought  to  have  come  to  you, 
and  would  a'  done  if  he  hadn't  intrigued  himself  into 
her  good  graces.  And  young  Mr.  Syde  was  just  as 
bad.  He  was  worse,  'cos,  being  young,  he  oughtn't  to 
have  been  thinking  about  such  things.  He  behaved  with 
black  treachery  towards  you  that  time  you  were 
staying  with  us,  and  I've  never  forgiven  him  for  it ;  and 
if  I  could  put  a  spoke  in  their  wheels  I'd  do  it  now  to 
see  things  put  right  again.  However,  I'm  afraid  it's 
too  late  to  think  of  that  now." 

"  You  needn't  think  of  it  on  my  behalf,"  said  Rich- 
ard. "  I  don't  want  to  look  forward  to  other  people's 
death  that  I  may  become  rich,  and  I  should  never  have 
been  able  to  please  Aunt  Henrietta ;  I  see  that  quite 
plainly  now.  She  wants  flattery.  Even  if  Sir  Franklin 
and  Laurence  hadn't  disliked  me  and  tried  to  get  me  out 
of  the  place,  as  I  believe  they  did,  I  should  have  gone 


274  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

pretty  soon.  My  aunt  would  have  sent  me  packing 
sooner  or  later.  I  don't  feel  a  bit  sore  now  about  what 
happened  then ;  in  fact,  I  never  think  of  it." 

"  Spoken  like  a  man,  and  as  I  thought  you'd  speak. 
No,  you  don't  want  to  be  hanging  on  the  whims  of  a 
rich  woman;  you're  made  of  too  good  stuff.  You  can 
leave  that  sort  of  thing  to  people  whose  only  idea  in  the 
world  is  to  amuse  themselves  and  spend  money.  I  name 
no  names.  You're  much  better  off  striking  out  a  line 
for  yourself  and  making  your  own  way  in  the  world. 
Now,  tell  me  what  you're  doing.  I've  always  taken  an 
interest  in  your  career,  Mr.  Richard,  and  always  shall. 

Begin  at  the  beginning.  Now Bless  me;  there's 

my  train!  Here,  Miss,  take  the  money  quick — one  and 
four,  and  there's  twopence  for  yourself.  Hi !  porter, 
you  be  careful  of  those  boxes.  Where's  a  second  smok- 
ing? Well,  good-bye,  Mr.  Richard.  It's  done  me  good 
to  see  you  again  and  hear  you  talk.  And  if  ever  I  can 
do  anything  to " 

The  rest  of  Mr.  Bliss's  words  were  lost  in  the  rumble 
of  the  retreating  train,  but  he  continued  to  wave  his 
hat  with  hearty  good  will  until  his  carriage  disappeared 
round  a  curve. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

RICHARD  MAKES  A  DECISION 

ON  Richard's  eighteenth  birthday  his  father  called  him 
into  his  study.  "  I  wish  to  talk  to  you  about  the  fu- 
ture," he  said.  "  It  is  time  we  came  to  a  definite 
decision." 

Richard  sat  down  and  waited  for  what  was  to  come 
next. 

"  Is  there  anything  in  your  mind  that  you  would  wish 
to  say  to  me  about  it  ?  "  asked  the  Vicar. 

"  I  don't  think  so,  father,"  said  Richard ;  "  at  least  I 
would  rather  hear  what  you  thought  of  for  me,  first." 

*'  Well,  you  know  quite  well  what  I  have  thought  of 
for  you.  It  is  my  dearest  wish  that  you  should  preach 
the  Gospel.  I  have  hoped  that  it  might  become  your 
wish  too,  but  I  have  not  pressed  you  on  the  matter. 
I  have  left  it  in  God's  hands.  What  I  have  done  is  to 
see  that  your  education  was  conducted  on  such  lines 
as  to  lead  up  to  your  taking  orders  in  the  Church.  But 
we  now  have  to  make  a  definite  decision,  and  it  is  for 
you  to  make  it,  because  I  should  be  the  last  man  in  the 
world  to  ask  you  to  take  up  such  a  life-work  as  I 
have  put  before  you  if  your  own  heart  was  not  in  it." 

Richard  thought  for  a  moment.  "  Why  have  I  got 
to  make  the  decision  now,  father?"  he  asked. 

"  Because  if  you  are  to  go  to  the  University,  it  is 
time  to  make  preparations." 

Richard  flushed  a  little.  "  I  have  been  thinking  about 
that  lately,  father,"  he  said.  "  I  had  an  idea  that  you 

275 


276  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

would  make  my  going  to  Oxford  depend  upon  whether 
I  went  into  the  Church  afterwards,  and  I  decided  to 
ask  you  when  you  talked  to  me  about  it  not  to  make  it 
dependent  on  that.  I  suppose  the  University  is  a  good 
preparation  for  other  professions  besides  the  Church." 
"  I  dare  say  it  is;  but  I  should  not  feel  justified  in 
spending  the  money  on  your  going  there  unless  it  were 
to  prepare  you  for  work  in  the  ministry.  I  will  tell 
you  how  the  matter  stands,  Richard.  You  are  old 
enough  now  to  enter  into  my  motives,  and  to  think  for 
yourself.  You  could  not,  of  course,  go  to  Oxford  in 
any  case  unless  you  gained  both  the  school  exhibition 
and  a  college  scholarship  or  exhibition  as  well.  The 
first  I  think  you  are  safe  for,  and  the  second  you  ought 
to  get.  If  it  were  a  major  scholarship  we  might  man- 
age it  in  any  case,  but  I  am  quite  convinced  that  you 
are  not  quite  up  to  that  mark.  You  could  not  expect 
more  than  an  exhibition,  and  that  would  leave  another 
seventy  pounds  a  year  to  be  provided  for  three  or  four 
years.  I  have  about  sixty  or  seventy  pounds  put  by 
for  you  which  your  aunt  sent  you  from  time  to  time 
during  your  childhood,  and  the  rest  I  should  have  to 
provide.  My  income  is  a  very  small  one,  and,  when  I 
have  set  aside  a  tithe  of  it  for  God's  service,  it  is  only 
by  constant  watchfulness  that  I  am  able  to  meet  neces- 
sary expenses.  I  do  not  shrink  from  self-sacrifice  on 
your  behalf,  and  something  I  could  contribute  by 
economizing  severely.  But  the  bulk  of  my  contribution 
would  have  to  come  out  of  the  money  I  set  aside,  as  I 
tell  you,  for  the  direct  service  of  God.  I  should  con- 
sider this  money  properly  spent  in  fitting  you  for  that 
service,  but  not  in  fitting  you  merely  for  a  secular  pro- 
fession. That  is  how  the  matter  stands,  and  why  you 
must  make  up  your  mind  now  to  consecrate  your  life  to 


RICHARD  MAKES  A  DECISION         277 

the  ministry  or  take  up  some  other  employment  which 
does  not  demand  a  University  education." 

Richard  sat  silent,  in   considerable  dejection. 

"  Of  course,"  pursued  his  father,  "  it  is  a  serious 
matter  for  any  one  of  your  age  to  decide  on,  and  I  do 
not  expect  you  to  decide  it  entirely  on  your  own  respon- 
sibility. I  have  had  your  future  in  my  mind  for  so  long, 
having  thought  earnestly  and  prayed  earnestly  about  it, 
and  I  am  convinced  that  I  have  done  right,  and  that  it  is 
God's  wish  that  you  should  undertake  the  work  of  the 
ministry.  I  dedicated  you  to  Him  at  your  birth,  and 
I  believe  He  has  accepted  my  gift.  I  think  I  have 
gained  assurance  that  this  is  so.  You  have  never  had 
the  startling  experiences  of  conversion  which  come  to 
some,  but  God  works  in  many  ways,  by  the  still  small 
voice  as  well  as  the  storm  and  the  earthquake,  and  when 
you  were  confirmed  I  was  comforted  to  believe  that  the 
beneficent  work  of  grace  was  going  on  in  your  heart  and 
that  you  were  being  perfected  as  an  instrument.  I  have 
not  attempted  to  interfere.  I  have  held  back  very  often 
when  my  impulse  was  to  advise  and  exhort.  I  have  left 
the  matter  in  His  hands,  and  I  believe  that  I  have  done 
right;  but,  oh  my  boy,  I  have  yearned  over  your  soul 
and  longed  so  earnestly  to  see  the  stirring  of  the  waters, 
the  saving  breath  of  the  Divine  Spirit." 

He  spoke  with  emotion.  Richard  was  touched  by 
his  words  and  his  tone,  but  he  was  also  troubled  in  his 
mind.  It  seemed  to  him  that  in  the  decision  that  was 
to  be  made  emotion  ought  to  have  as  little  place  as  pos- 
sible. And,  again,  the  upheavals  and  crises  of  spiritual 
experience  which  were  to  his  father  so  all-important, 
were  unreal  to  him,  outside  anything  he  had  ever  known 
or  seen.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  being  asked  to  produce 
signs  of  inward  struggles  which  his  mind  was  quite  in- 


278  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

capable  of  ever  undergoing.  It  had  never  occurred  to 
him  to  question  the  truth  of  the  beliefs  in  which  he  had 
been  brought  up,  but,  as  far  as  their  miraculous  ap- 
plication to  human  life  was  concerned,  he  was  a  sceptic 
without  knowing  it.  He  could  make  no  reply  to  his 
father's  half  appealing  words,  but  sat  silent,  feeling 
uncomfortable.  John  Baldock  mastered  his  emotion 
and  proceeded. 

"  What  you  have  to  do  now,  Richard,"  he  said,  "  is 
to  set  your  mind  wholly  on  the  course  that  .you  haVe  to 
run.  Put  away  childish  things.  Your  whole  life  must 
be  consecrated  to  the  work  that  lies  before  you.  The 
years  of  preparation  that 

"  Then  you  have  decided  for  me,  father  ?  "  inter- 
rupted Richard,  in  some  not  unnatural  surprise. 

"  Do  you  doubt  my  wisdom  in  deciding  such  a  ques- 
tion ?  "  returned  his  father. 

"  I  thought  you  said  that  it  was  for  me  to  decide." 

"  So,  of  course,  it  is,  in  the  sense  that,  if  you  felt 
for  any  good  reason  that  you  were  unable  to  devote 
yourself  whole-heartedly  to  the  work  that  lies  before 
you,  I  should  consider  it  very  wrong  to  force  you  into 
it  or  to  press  you  in  any  way.  But  I  cannot  believe 
that  at  your  age  you  can  feel  any  strong  disinclination 
that  would  cause  you  to  run  counter  to  my  wishes. 
I " 

"  But,  father,  surely,  if  you  think  me  too  young  to 
decide  against  it,  I  am  too  young  to  decide  in  favour 
of  it?  If  I  say  yes  now,  I  bind  myself  for  my  whole 
life.  You  mean  that,  don't  you  ?  Unless  I  say  definitely 
now  that  I  do  not  wish  to  be  a  clergyman  when  I  am  old 
enough,  I  shall  go  to  Oxford  in  another  year,  and  after 
that  it  won't  be  open  to  me  to  say  that  I  have  thought 
it  over  and  I  do  not  think  that  I  am  suited  for  it." 


RICHARD  MAKES  A  DECISION         279 

John  Baldock's  face  had  been  growing  darker  dur- 
ing this  speech.  "  You  certainly  would  be  going  to 
Oxford  under  false  pretences  if  you  drew  back  later," 
he  said.  "  I  have  explained  that  to  you." 

"  Then  I  am  to  consider  myself  bound  in  honour  for 
my  whole  life  to  what  I  decide  now  on  my  eighteenth 
birthday." 

"  You  speak  in  a  strange  way.  Is  there  anything  in 
your  life  that  leads  you  to  draw  back  from  the  holy 
calling  you  are  privileged  to  be  able  to  follow  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  thought  very  much  about  it.  When  I 
have  done  so,  I  haven't  disliked  the  idea.  But  I  don't 
think  I  ever  intended  to  undertake  it  without  thinking  it 
over  very  seriously." 

"  That,  of  course,  you  must  do.  You  must  make  up 
your  mind  that  no  worldly  thoughts  or  ambitions  shall 
influence  you;  you  must  make  a  most  strenuous  effort 
of  mind — knowing  well  that  you  will  be  helped  to  do  so 
— to  keep  straight  in  the  narrow  path.  It  will  seem  a 
very  narrow  one  at  first,  no  doubt,  but  you  will  be 
abundantly  blessed  and  happy  when  you  come  to  tread 
it.  I  wish  you  to  think  seriously  of  it — most  seri- 
ously and  prayerfully,  but  I  do  not  wish  you  to  draw 
back  from  it  at  the  very  entrance  of  your  man- 
hood." 

Richard  felt  a  strong  impulse  of  irritation.  "  You 
seem  to  want  me,  father,  to  consider  a  question  quite 
settled,  which  at  the  same  time  you  tell  me  I  have  to 
decide  upon  for  myself,"  he  said.  "  What  do  you  really 
mean  that  I  am  to  decide  for  myself?  " 

"  You  have  to  decide  that  you  will  allow  nothing  to 
turn  you  aside  from  the  path  laid  down  for  you." 

"  Then  it  is  not  open  to  me  to  decide  whether  I  take 
that  path  or  not?  That  is  already  settled  for  me?  " 


280  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  I  have  never  thought  of  it  otherwise.  I  confess  I 
should  be  very  grievously  disappointed  if  you  refuse  to 
follow  out  the  course  I  have  had  in  my  mind  for  you 
for  years ;  which  I  am  assured  is  the  one  that  has  been 
chosen  for  you,  and,  as  you  yourself  have  known,  has 
been  before  you  ever  since  you  went  to  school." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  father,"  said  Richard,  after  a 
short  pause.  "  I  hope  you  won't  be  angry  with  what  I 
say,  or  misunderstand  it;  but  I  must  decide  a  question 
of  that  sort  for  myself.  I  thought  you  said  as  much 
just  now,  but  I  suppose  I  was  mistaken.  I  can't  pos- 
sibly give  a  promise  now  that  will  bind  me  for  my  whole 
life  to  do  something  that  I  may  think  quite  differently 
about  in  five  years'  time." 

"  I  am  immensely  disappointed  in  you,  Richard.  Can 
you  deny  that  the  life  of  a  clergyman  is,  of  all  others, 
the  one  spent  most  directly  in  doing  God's  service?  " 

"  I — I  suppose  it  is  so !  " 

"  And  are  you  not  pledged  by  your  baptismal  and 
confirmation  vows  to  spend  yourself  and  your  life  in 
God's  service  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  hesitatingly. 

"  Then,  why  this  refusal  to  take  up  the  highest  work 
of  all?  " 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  the  highest  work  of  all,  for 
everybody.  In  fact  it  is  quite  certain  that  it  can't  be, 
or  everybody  who  professes  Christianity  would  be  bound 
to  take  it  up." 

"  I  must  beg  of  you  not  to  speak  flippantly.  This  is 
perhaps  the  most  serious  moment  of  your  life,  for  you 
have  to  make  a  choice  of  good  or  evil  in  it.  Nobody 
would  say  that  every  Christian  is  called  to  a  particular 
work.  The  question  you  have  to  face  is  whether  you 
are  not  called  to  it." 


RICHARD  MAKES  A  DECISION         281 

"  That  is  the  question  I  am  trying  to  face,  father. 

If  I  felt  that  I  were  called  to  it,  I Well,  I  don't 

know  how  that  call  would  come,  but  I — I  hope  I  should- 
n't refuse  it." 

"  A  call  may  come  in  many  ways.  It  came  to  St. 
Paul  by  a  compelling  miracle;  it  comes  to  us  in  these 
days  very  often  through  the  juncture  of  circumstance. 
In  your  case  it  seems  clear  to  me  that  the  way  is 
pointed  out,  and  that  you  may  interpret  the  circum- 
stances of  your  life  as  a  call  to  the  ministry." 

"What  circumstances,  father?  I  am  the  son  of  a 
clergyman.  That  is  the  only  possible  circumstance  I 
can  see  that  directs  me  towards  the  Church." 

"  That  is  one  circumstance — one  of  the  least.  There 
are  many  others.  The  expectations  which  I  had  for 
the  first  twelve  years  of  your  life  of  worldly  position 
and  wealth  were  disappointed,  as  you  know.  I  look 
upon  that  as  a  very  strong  guiding  circumstance.  The 
fact  that  it  is  only  possible  for  me  to  send  you  to 
the  University — which  is  the  only  entrance  I  know  of 
to  such  callings  as  you  might  otherwise  be  suited  for — 
if  it  is  to  be  a  preparation  for  this  one  holy  calling,  is 
another.  But  the  greatest  of  all  is  the  inward  convic- 
tion which  has  been  given  to  me  that  I  am  right  in 
dedicating  you  to  this  service." 

"  But,  father,  you  may  be  mistaken  in  that  convic- 
tion." 

"  I  am  not  mistaken." 

"  I  don't  feel  it  myself.  Surely  I  ought  to  feel  it 
strongly  myself  if — if  it  is  sent  from  God." 

"  I  pray  that  you  may  feel  it.  I  believe  that  you 
will  if  you  do  not  resist  the  Divine  call." 

"  Then  I  must  wait  until  I  do.  I  can't  run  the  risk. 
I  cannot  bind  myself  now." 


282  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  I  don't  sympathize  with  you  in  your  hesitation, 
Richard.  It  seems  to  me  to  come  from  lack  of  faith,  and 
if  you  yield  yourself  to  God's  guidance  the  faith  will 
come  at  once.  But  I  will  not  hurry  matters.  I  will  put 
aside  my  own  disappointment,  and  wait  until  God's  will  is 
revealed  to  you.  I  think  that  in  that,  at  any  rate,  you 
are  right.  Only  I  am  convinced  most  firmly  of  this, 
that  the  assurance  will  come  the  moment  you  yield  your- 
self. Cannot  you  make  up  your  mind  now  to  ask  for 
grace  sufficient  to  enable  you  to  do  so?  " 

"  I  will  think  over  it,  father." 

"  Not  resting  on  your  own  powers,  still  less,  I  trust, 
on  the  advice  of  others  who  are  ill  fitted  to  help  you 
in  a  matter  of  this  sort.  Will  you  pray  over  it?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  I  am  content  to  leave  it  there.  I  believe  you 
are  honest,  Richard.  You  have  been  taught  what 
prayer  means  and  what  it  can  do.  If  you  exercise  your- 
self in  prayer  the  answer  will  come  sooner  or  later.  I 
am  so  sure  of  what  the  answer  will  be  that  I  am  willing 
to  let  you  go  on  now  with  your  preparations  for  the 
University,  and  even  to  send  you  there  if  the  light  has 
not  come  to  you  by  the  time  you  will  have  to  go  up.  I 
shall  wait  in  full  confidence  until  you  come  and  tell  me 
that  you  have  made  up  your  mind — that  the  call  has 
come.  I  will  trust  you.  I  know  well  what  the  result 
will  be." 

With  this  strange  compact  Richard  departed.  He 
went  out  through  the  garden  into  the  heart  of  the 
forest  to  where  a  great  beech  spread  branching  arms 
over  a  deep-chasmed  brook,  and  threw  himself  down 
under  its  shade.  He  stayed  there  for  hours,  and  fought 
his  battle.  He  did  not  deceive  himself.  He  knew  very 
well  that  he  had  to  come  to  a  decision,  and  he  told  him- 


RICHARD  MAKES  A  DECISION         283 

self  that  he  would  make  it  in  that  place  and  abide  by  it 
afterwards. 

He  went  over  in  his  mind  the  conversation  he  had 
had  with  his  father.  The  contradictions  which  had  been 
so  patent  in  his  father's  attitude  towards  the  question 
presented  no  great  difficulties  to  him.  He  resolved  them 
by  what  he  knew  of  his  character  and  habits  of  thought. 
First  of  all  he  had  been  told  that  he  must  make  the 
decision  for  himself,  and  at  once.  Of  course  such  a 
decision  lay  with  him  who  alone  was  concerned  in  it,  as 
any  sensible  being  must  perceive;  and  his  father  had  a 
strong  vein  of  common  sense,  however  much  he  might  be 
turned  aside  from  relying  on  it  by  other  considerations. 
And,  allowing  for  his  views,  he  was  not  altogether  un- 
reasonable in  stipulating  that  the  decision  must  be 
come  to  at  this  early  date  under  the  circumstances  he 
had  mentioned.  Then  had  come  the  startling  disclosure 
that,  after  all,  the  decision  was  considered  to  have  been 
already  arrived  at,  Richard  himself  having  had  no  say 
in  the  matter.  This  was  John  Baldock  in  his  domineer- 
ing mood,  impatient  of  any  opinions  opposed  to  his 
own,  hardly  admitting  that  such  opinions  had  a  right 
to  exist.  Richard  had  suffered  enough  under  this  qual- 
ity of  his  father's  character  in  the  past,  but  very  little 
of  late ;  and  in  the  generosity  of  his  youth  he  passed  it 
over  without  resentment,  recognizing,  in  an  impulse  of 
affection,  that  it  had  lasted  during  their  interview  but 
a  short  time  before  giving  way  to  an  attitude  quite 
different.  It  could  be  left  out  of  account  for  the  pres- 
ent, but  if  it  appeared  again  there  could  be  no  doubt 
but  that  it  must  be  resisted. 

And  then  had  come  the  disclosure  by  which  he  realized 
that  his  determination  must  be  influenced.  His  father, 
convinced  that  the  decision  had  already  been  made  by  a 


284  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

Power  whom  both  of  them  must  eventually  obey,  had 
been  willing,  after  all  that  had  gone  before,  to  insist 
neither  on  an  undertaking  from  Richard  nor  on  his 
own  right  to  decide  for  him,  but  to  leave  the  decision 
indefinitely  open.  Richard  might  stay  at  school  another 
year,  and  then  go  to  Oxford,  without  binding  himself 
to  anything  that  might  come  later.  He  might,  in  fact, 
do  just  what  he  wished  to  do,  and  put  off  all  question 
of  the  future  for  another  four  or  five  years. 

Very  well,  then,  why  not?  There  was  no  step  to 
take  of  any  sort.  He  had  simply  to  go  on  with  his  life 
on  the  lines  on  which  he  had  thought  an  hour  before  it 
would  proceed  for  years  to  come.  What  had  happened 
to  make  him  feel  that  he  could  not  do  so  without  clear- 
ing the  obstacle  of  a  grave  decision? 

It  was  a  great  temptation.  He  longed  as  ardently 
now  to  go  to  Oxford  as  years  before  he  had  longed  to 
go  to  Rugby.  More  ardently,  because  with  greater 
understanding.  But  he  realized  that  it  was  a  tempta- 
tion, although  at  first  he  could  not  tell  why.  He  set 
his  mind  to  the  task  of  discovering  the  reason.  He 
would  be  honest  ;  he  would  face  it  out. 

Why  did  he  shrink  from  taking  advantage  of  his 
father's  surrender?  Because  he  felt  that  if  he  did  so  he 
would  be  going  to  Oxford  under  false  pretences.  If  his 
father  had  had  any  doubt  of  his  finally  taking  orders  he 
would  certainly  not  have  consented  to  his  going.  This 
much  was  clear.  If  he  felt  that  he  could  not  take  that 
course,  then  it  would  not  be  right  that  he  should  go. 
But  did  he  feel  this?  That  was  what  he  had  to  decide. 

He  had  never  felt  it  hitherto.  He  had  had  the 
career  of  a  clergyman  before  him  for  the  last  five 
years,  and  had  accepted  it  as  his  settled  future.  If 
one  had  asked  him  during  that  time  what  he  was 


, 


RICHARD  MAKES  A  DECISION         285 

going  to  do  after  his  education  should  be  over,  he  had 
answered  without  hesitation  that  he  was  going  into  the 
Church.  He  had  said  so  to  John  Meaking,  and  to  Mr. 
Ventrey. 

His  thoughts,  in  parentheses,  turned  to  these,  his 
two  most  intimate  friends.  He  thought  for  a  time  that 
he  would  like  to  ask  their  advice  on  the  problem  that 
he  was  going  to  solve,  but  soon  relinquished  the  idea. 
No  one  but  himself  could  make  up  his  mind  for  him. 
Besides,  he  knew  well  what  each  of  them  would  say. 
Mr.  Ventrey  had  never  spoken  to  him  directly  upon 
the  subject,  but  he  knew  as  well  as  if  he  had  done  so 
that  he  would  be  unsympathetic  towards  a  calling  which 
his  father  judged  to  be  the  highest  he  could  follow.  His 
father  knew  it  too,  and  had  hinted  as  much.  He  al- 
lowed himself  for  a  moment  to  compare  the  lives  of  the 
two  men,  the  one  who  claimed  divine  authority  for  all 
his  actions,  the  other  who  grasped  his  opportunities  in 
his  own  hands  and  made  what  he  could  of  them.  Which 
of  the  two  was  likely  to  be  the  better  guide  in  the  diffi- 
culties of  life  and  conduct?  He  turned  away  from  the 
question,  leaving  it  unanswered.  But  the  knowledge 
of  what  Mr.  Ventrey  would  have  advised  him  to  do,  if 
he  had  asked  his  advice  and  he  had  been  able  to  give 
it  frankly,  weighed  with  him. 

John  Meaking  had  given  his  advice  on  the  subject 
more  than  once,  quite  straightforwardly,  and  without 
being  asked  for  it.  Richard  had  not  paid  much  at- 
tention to  it  at  the  time,  but  it  recurred  to  him  now. 
He  felt  it  to  be  good  advice  as  far  as  it  went.  Meaking 
held  strongly  that  the  work  you  set  your  hand  to  ought 
to  be  the  chief  thing  in  your  life,  and  that  you  could 
not  be  happy  in  it  unless  it  were.  He  also  held  that, 
unless  a  complete  change  came  over  Richard's  char- 


286  RICHARD  BALDOCK  . 

acter,  it  was  impossible  that  he  should  be  able  to  make 
his  work  as  a  clergyman  the  chief  thing  in  his  life. 
Richard  had  been  more  influenced  by  Meaking's  views 
on  the  subject,  expressed  in  various  ways,  but  always 
with  cogency,  than  he  had  known.  Possibly  it  was 
owing  to  these,  rather  than  to  the  more  conventional 
conceptions  held  by  his  father  of  what  a  clergyman's 
life  should  be,  that  he  shrank  from  pledging  himself 
to  a  vocation  for  which  he  doubted  whether  he  was 
fitted. 

At  this  stage  he  became  very  unhappy,  for  he  saw 
whither  his  cogitations  were  leading  him.  From  their 
widely  different  points  of  view,  both  his  father  and 
Meaking  held  the  highest  ideals  as  to  what  the  life  of  a 
teacher  of  religion  should  be.  It  must  be  nothing  less 
than  entirely  devoted  to  the  one  aim  and  object.  Mr. 
Ventrey  would  no  doubt  hold  much  the  same  view,  for 
there  was  a  curious  similarity  between  the  workings  of 
his  mind  and  those  of  Meaking's;  curious,  considering 
that  the  one  was  a  young  man  of  very  small  education, 
and  the  other  had  spent  a  long  life  in  training  his  mind 
and  his  understanding.  And  Richard  was  bound  to  ac- 
knowledge that  this  view  had  become  his.  It  would  no 
longer  be  possible  for  him  to  look  forward  to  the  life 
of  a  country  clergyman  as  affording  him  opportunities 
for  the  occupations  and  pleasures  he  liked  best.  He 
must  go  into  it  putting  them  aside  altogether  as  of  no 
account,  or  not  at  all.  And  when  he  had  brought  him- 
self to  this  point  it  became  quite  plain  that,  as  he  was 
at  present  constituted,  there  was  nothing  whatever  that 
drew  him  towards  it.  Unless  he  became  quite  a  new 
creature  within  the  next  few  years,  a  creature  with  dif- 
ferent tastes  and  impulses  and  powers  of  mind,  he 
would  be  as  unfitted  for  a  cure  of  souls  as  any  one 


RICHARD  MAKES  A  DECISION         287 

could  be  who  estimated  aright  the  importance  of  that 
calling. 

He  cajne  to  this  conclusion  by  the  direct  path  indi- 
cated, but  it  was  long  before  he  could  fix  it  in  his  mind. 
His  boyish  self,  impatient  of  dogmatic  scruples,  rose 
up  and  told  him  to  look  around  him.  How  many  of 
the  clergymen  he  knew  took  these  high  views  of  their 
calling?  Were  not  their  lives  much  the  same  as  those 
of  other  men?  Did  not  even  the  best  of  them  indulge 
in  much  the  same  pleasures,  and  were  they  any  the 
worse  for  it?  There  was  no  question  of  his  shirking 
his  duty  as  a  clergyman.  He  would  do  it  as  well  as  he 
could,  and  take  an  interest  in  it  too.  He  would  preach 
and  visit  and  hold  the  requisite  services  and  meetings, 
and  when  he  had  done  his  duty,  what  harm  in  taking 
part  in  the  most  innocent  recreation,  out  of  doors  or  in, 
that  a  man  could  enjoy?  These  arguments,  and  others 
of  the  same  sort,  appeared  consoling  and  convincing 
until  he  began  to  be  persuaded  by  them ;  when  they  were 
met  by  the  simple  conviction  that,  whatever  might  be 
right  for  other  men,  he,  Richard  Baldock,  having  had 
his  eyes  open  to  the  truth  of  things,  could  not  choose 
this  calling  unless  he  were  prepared  to  give  up  every- 
thing in  life  that  he  took  most  pleasure  in.  Again  the 
house  of  cards  was  built  up,  and  again  demolished.  At 
last  he  accepted  the  decision  to  which  he  had  been 
brought.  He  was  bound  in  honour  to  reject  his  father's 
offer,  unless  he  saw  in  front  of  him  a  possibility  of  a 
complete  change  in  himself. 

He  could  not  see  this  possibility.  Nothing  that  he 
really  believed  or  had  observed  in  the  lives  of  others 
pointed  to  it.  He  saw  himself  growing  into  his  man- 
hood with  the  tastes  that  he  had  already  begun  to  form 
strengthened,  and  others  added  to  them.  But  nothing 


288  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

that  lie  knew  of  himself  indicated  that  impulses  quite 
dissimilar  would  be  born  in  him,  which  might  alter  his 
desires  altogether. 

His  father  did  believe  this — not  only  that  it  might 
happen,  but  that  it  would  happen.  He  believed  it  so 
perfectly  that  he  was  willing  to  take  the  risk  of  sending 
him  to  Oxford,  although  he  would  not  think  of  sending 
him  there  to  prepare  for  any  profession  or  calling  but 
that  of  the  church.  Then  why  could  he  not  relieve  him- 
self of  the  responsibility  of  decision,  and  take  what 
was  offered  to  him? 

Here  was  a  temptation  more  subtle  than  the  last.  He 
believed  the  truths  that  his  father  taught,  did  he  not? 
He  had  never  thought  of  questioning  them.  The  instan- 
taneous, miraculous  conversion — he  had  been  told  of 
many  examples  of  this — did  he  deny  that  they  had  oc- 
curred? No.  But  he  had  never  seen  an  instance.  On 
the  contrary,  he  had  met  with  several  instances  of  peo- 
ple who  professed  to  have  undergone  this  miraculous 
change  of  heart  in  the  past,  but  whose  thoughts  and 
actions  seemed  to  be  guided  by  just  such  motives  as 
those  of  people  who  made  no  professions.  Still,  his 
life  had  been  spent  in  rather  a  restricted  circle ;  he  did 
not  deny,  did  he,  that  there  were  thousands  of  people  in 
the  world  who  had  experienced  a  real  change  of  heart? 
Why,  it  was  the  doctrine  upon  which  Christianity  was 
founded.  His  father  had  preached  nothing  else.  No, 
he  did  not  deny  it. 

Then  was  it  not  probable  that  his  father  was  right? 
He  claimed  nothing  less  than  a  divine  revelation  that 
his  own  dedication  of  his  son  to  this  particular  service 
of  God  had  been  accepted,  and  that  the  "  call "  with- 
out which  no  man  might  take  upon  himself  the  respon- 
sibilities of  the  ministry,  would  surely  come  to  him  in 


RICHARD  MAKES  A  DECISION         289 

good  time.  Why  could  he  not  leave  it  there?  He  had 
nothing  to  do — even  his  father  would  have  told  him  that 
he  had  nothing  to  do — but  to  wait  without  impatience 
until  the  call  and  the  change  should  come  to  him.  Could 
he  undertake  not  to  resist  it  if  it  came?  Yes,  this,  at 
any  rate,  he  could  undertake. 

Then  followed  a  long  struggle  of  mind.  Again  rea- 
son, founded  on  beliefs  assented  to,  seemed  to  have  the 
victory,  and  more  than  once  Richard  believed  himself 
to  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it  would  be  right  for 
him  to  do  what  he  ardently  wished  to  do,  to  go  to  Ox- 
ford and  to  leave  the  greater  question  for  the  future. 
But  it  was  not  a  conclusion  that  could  satisfy  him.  He 
could  not  rise  from  his  place  and  go  home  with  a  clear 
and  contented  mind,  having  so  decided.  The  question 
would  arise  again  and  again,  and  he  knew  that  he  would 
never  be  able  to  free  himself  from  the  charge  which 
his  own  honesty  would  bring  against  him,  that  he  had 
so  decided  because  he  wanted  to  go  to  Oxford,  and  not 
because  he  thought  that  there  would  be  any  chance  of 
his  ever  wanting  now  to  go  into  the  Church. 

He  seemed  to  have  come  to  a  deadlock.  He  could 
not  find  a  flaw  in  the  arguments  he  had  produced  in 
favour  of  accepting  his  father's  offer,  but  his  own  hon- 
est self  still  resisted  them.  He  remembered  his  promise 
to  use  the  weapon  of  prayer  in  his  deliberations.  He 
knelt  down  where  he  was,  away  from  men,  alone  with 
the  God  whom  he  believed  in  with  all  sincerity,  in  spite 
of  a  dawning  scepticism  as  to  the  dogmas  in  which  he 
had  been  trained,  and  put  up  his  petition.  It  was  a 
prayer  for  guidance,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was 
instantly  answered.  The  arguments  by  which  he  had 
sought  to  persuade  himself  were  merely  plausible. 
There  was  no  necessity  to  refute  them.  They  could  be 


S90  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

ignored.  It  w&s  not  for  him  to  take  upon  himself, 
either  now  or  at  any  time,  the  functions  of  a  priest- 
hood; and,  that  being  so,  it  was  not  open  to  him  to  take 
advantage  of  an  expectation  held  by  his  father  but  not 
by  himself,  and  proceed  with  his  education  as  it  was  at 
present  mapped  out  for  him. 

Now,  at  last,  he  felt  strong  and  settled  in  his  mind. 
He  had  gone  through  an  ordeal,  and  emerged  from  it 
victorious.  The  contentment  that  his  decision  brought 
him  overpowered  even  the  great  disappointment  occa- 
sioned by  the  downfall  of  his  hopes  of  Oxford.  But 
that  consideration  must  wait.  He  could  only  now  feel 
the  relief  and  buoyancy  that  arose  from  a  decision 
honestly  come  by.  He  had  made  himself  captain  of  his 
soul,  and  could  look  the  whole  world  in  the  face  with 
nothing  to  hide  and  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

HOW  THE  DECISION  WAS  RECEIVED 

RICHARD  allowed  a  few  days  to  elapse  before  he  told  his 
father  of  the  decision  to  which  he  had  come.  He  wanted 
to  test  his  resolution.  It  remained  unchanged,  but  the 
exultation  he  had  experienced  when  it  was  first  made 
had  faded  away  and  left  behind  it  a  troubled  sense  of 
loss.  His  thoughts  had  so  often  of  late  turned  towards 
the  life  of  the  University,  which  he  was  to  have  entered 
upon  in  a  little  over  a  year,  and  had  dwelt  upon  it 
with  such  pleasurable  anticipations,  that  he  suffered  a 
definite  pang  of  unhappiness  many  times  a  day  when 
they  followed  their  wonted  course,  only  to  end  in  a 
reminder  of  what  had  been  cut  out  of  his  future.  It 
was  no  ordinary  sacrifice  he  had  made  on  the  altar  of 
honesty.  It  was  a  giving  up  of  something  that  he  most 
ardently  desired,  the  loss  of  which,  besides,  altered  for 
the  present  his  whole  outlook  in  life.  It  must  be  ad- 
mitted that,  although  his  main  intention  remained  quite 
firm,  he  was  not  without  fleeting  hopes  that  Oxford 
might  still  come  into  his  future.  It  was  very  difficult 
to  give  up  all  idea  of  it.  But  he  never  got  so  far  as 
to  consider  how  it  was  to  come,  for  he  knew  his  father 
well  enough  to  be  quite  sure  that  he  would  abide  by  his 
word,  and  that  it  was  of  no  use  to  plead  or  reason  with 
him.  He  had  a  sort  of  hope  in  the  back  of  his  mind 
during  these  two  or  three  days  that  Mr.  Ventrey  might 
help  him  in  some  way,  at  any  rate  with  advice  as  to 
what  he  was  to  do  next ;  but  Mr.  Ventrey  and  Lettice 
were  in  Paris,  and  he  had  no  one  to  turn  to. 

m 


RICHARD  BALDOCK 

His  discomfort  became  no  less  acute  when  three  days 
had  gone  by  since  his  decision  had  been  come  to,  and 
he  resolved  to  make  it  known  to  his  father  without  any 
further  delay.  He  went  into  the  study  with  a  spirit 
very  much  subdued.  He  felt  it  to  be  rather  hard  that 
he  should  have  to  go  through  the  scene  which  he  knew 
could  not  be  avoided,  when  his  resolution  had  cost  him 
so  much.  But  it  was  of  no  use  to  shirk  the  inevitable, 
and  he  presented  himself,  prepared  to  make  the  best 
of  it. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  father,  about  what  we 
talked  over  the  other  day,"  he  said. 

The  Vicar  looked  up  with  a  face  that  was  almost 
eager.  "  Yes,  my  boy,"  he  said,  "  you  have  been  think- 
ing over  it,  I  know.  I  have  observed  that  you  have 
been  serious  and  collected  in  your  mind,  and  I  feel 
sure  that  you  have  been  approaching  the  matter  in  a 
right  spirit  and  that  you  have  received  guidance.  It 
could  not  fail  you.  I  have  prayed  for  you  constantly, 
and  I  have  been  assured  of  that." 

This  speech  did  not  tend  to  raise  Richard's  spirits. 
"  I  think  I  have  been  guided,"  he  said.  "  But  I  am 
afraid  it  is  not  in  the  direction  you  wish,  father.  I 
have  thought  it  all  over  very  carefully,  and  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  that  it  would  not  be  right  to  accept 
your  offer." 

John  Baldock's  face  had  lost  all  its  eagerness.  It 
had  become  black,  with  the  intolerant  expression  that 
Richard  knew  so  well. 

"And  pray,  why  not?"  he  asked  shortly. 

"  Because  you  are  willing  to  send  me  to  Oxford 
only  because  you  are  convinced  that  I  shall  decide  to 
go  into  the  Church  at  some  time,  and " 

"  Do  not  use  that  expression.     You  are  already  in, 


HOW  THE  DECISION  WAS  RECEIVED     293 

the  Church,  as  are  all  baptized  Christians.  You  are 
going  to  Oxford  to  prepare  for  Holy  Orders." 

"  I  can't  see  any  likelihood  of  my  ever  wanting 
to  take  Orders.  In  fact,  I  am  sure  that  I  never 
shall." 

"  Really,  Richard,  you  would  try  the  patience  of 
Job.  How  can  you  at  your  age  be  sure  of  any  such 
thing?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  father.     But  I  am  sure." 

An  exclamation  of  angry  impatience.  "  You  cannot 
be  sure.  It  is  mere  obstinacy.  It  is  worse  than  that. 
It  is  a  definite  resistance  of  grace.  You  may  feel  that 
as  you  are  at  present  such  a  course  would  be  impossible, 
as  no  doubt  it  would  be.  You  may  feel  very  far  from 
being  in  the  spiritual  state  that  would  justify  you  in 
taking  on  yourself  the  responsibilities  of  the  ministry, 
even  if  you  were  old  enough  and  had  gone  through  the 
requisite  training.  But  I  have  told  you  that  if  you 
resign  yourself  to  God's  wish  the  grace  and  the  convic- 
tion will  come  in  His  good  time.  Why  do  you  take  upon 
yourself  to  doubt  it,  or  to  cut  yourself  off  from  the 
power  to  accept  it  when  it  does  come?  " 

"  Because  my  conviction  is  as  strong  as  yours, 
father,  that  it  is  not  the  work  for  me.  I  am  old  enough 
to  think  for  myself  now,  and — and  to  see  what  I'm 
fitted  for." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  kindly  tell  me,  then,  what  you  are 
fitted  for." 

"  I— I  don't  exactly  know,  but  I " 

"  Quite  so.     A  moment  ago  you  said  you  did." 

"  I  know  that  I  am  not  fitted  for  the  life  of  a  clergy- 
man— at  least,  not  such  a  life  as  I  think  clergymen 
eught  to  lead." 

"  Oh,  you  have  thought  it  over  as  clearly  as  that, 


294  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

have  you?  Will  you  tell  me  what  your  opinion  is  of  the 
life  a  clergyman  ought  to  lead?" 

"  I  think  that  he  ought  to  think  about  nothing  but 
his  work.  I  mean  that  I  don't  think  it  ought  to  matter 
to  him  where  he  lives,  or  how  he  lives,  or  what  he  does 
— I  mean  that  he  ought  not  to  have  any  likes  or  dis- 
likes outside  his  work." 

"  You  put  it  in  a  curious  way,  but  you  are  quite 
right.  That  is  what  the  life  of  a  minister  of  the  Gospel 
should  be,  but  for  any  man  to  think  that  he  had  the 
power  to  lead  such  a  life  of  himself  would  be  gross  pre- 
sumption. Of  course  you  are  not  fitted  for  it,  and 
never  could  be,  in  your  own  strength.  But  that  has 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  case.  It  is  God's 
help  that  is  needed  to  fit  you  or  any  one  else  for  the 
life,  and,  thanks  be  to  His  mercy,  it  is  help  so  strong 
that  it  can  break  down  all  selfish  desires  and  impulses, 
and  change  the  very  innermost  impulses  of  a  man's 
heart.  And  not  only  that,  but  it  is  help  that  can  be 
had  for  the  asking.  Do  you  doubt  all  this?" 

The  dark  look  had  lifted  somewhat,  and  given  place 
to  one  of  earnestness.  Richard  felt  the  change,  but  it 
brought  no  relief  to  his  mind.  It  was  harder  to  stand 
against  than  the  irritation  that  had  preceded  it.  He 
foresaw  the  weary  round  repeating  itself,  all  the  argu- 
ments brought  forward  again  which  he  himself  had 
used  and  had  not  been  able  to  refute  except  by  the  in- 
ward conviction  that  there  was  something  wrong  with 
them  somewhere,  and  that  if  they  were  accepted  he 
should  be  led  into  doing  something  which  he  ought 
not  to  do.  He  was  tempted  to  say  that  he  did  doubt, 
and  to  cut  the  knot.  But  that  would  not  be  honest 
either. 

"  I  suppose  it  must  be  as  you  say,  father,"  he  replied, 


HOW  THE  DECISION  WAS  RECEIVED     S95 

"  but  I  cannot  feel  that  it  will  be  like  that  with  me,  and 
I  have  tried  hard  enough." 

"  In  what  way  have  you  tried?  You  seem  to  me  only 
to  be  holding  back  with  all  your  strength  against  the 
divine  influence  that  would  change  your  whole  life." 

"  I  am  sure  I  am  not." 

"  I  cannot  talk  witli  you  any  further  about  it,  Rich- 
ard. You  are  in  a  hard  and  unrepentant  mood.  I  can 
only  go  on  praying,  in  the  full  assurance  that  my 
prayers  will  some  day  be  answered." 

There  was  silence  for  a  short  time.  Then  John  Bal- 
dock  said :  "  I  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  you  now. 
You  had  better  leave  me." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do,  father?  You  said  the  ques- 
tion must  be  settled  now." 

"  I  consider  it  as  settled.  Your  present  attitude 
occasions  me  great  sorrow,  but  I  should  be  unfaithful 
if  I  did  not  still  believe  that  it  will  be  changed.  I  act 
on  that  belief.  You  are  to  go  on  as  before,  and  you 
will  go  to  Oxford  in  due  course." 

Was  this  really  faith  or  mere  fanaticism?  Which- 
ever it  was,  it  was  a  conviction  of  the  utmost  strength, 
and  Richard  was  shaken  by  it.  After  all,  it  might  be 
that  he  was  wrong  and  his  father  right,  and  that  if  he 
did  not  cut  himself  off  from  the  opportunity  there  actu- 
ally would  come  a  time  when  the  whole  trend  of  his 
nature  would  alter,  when  the  tastes  and  habits  he  was 
forming  would  be  swept  away  by  a  miracle,  and  others 
of  which  he  now  saw  no  signs  in  himself  would  spring 
up  fully  formed  to  take  their  place.  His  reason  re- 
jected the  possibility  as  soon  as  it  suggested  itself.  It 
was  not  thus  that  spiritual  changes  were  worked. 

"  You  know,  father,"  he  said,  "  it  is  very  hard  for 
me.  There  is  nothing  at  present  I  want  more  than  to 


RICHARD  BALDOCK 

go  to  Oxford  next  year.  I  only  want  to  tell  you  that 
if  I  do  go  I  cannot  pledge  myself  in  any  way." 

"  You  are  not   asked  now  to  pledge  yourself." 

"  But  I  am  bound  to  say  this,  too.  I  am  almost  as 
certain  as  I  can  be  about  anything  that  I  shall  never 
take  Orders." 

John  Baldock  thought  for  a  moment.  "  I  don't 
wish  to  be  impatient  with  you,  as  I  am  strongly  tempted 
to  be.  Let  us  look  the  situation  in  the  face.  What  has 
occurred  to  make  you  take  this  attitude?  You  say  you 
have  a  conviction.  I  think — I  am  sure — it  is  a  mis- 
taken one.  But  I  will  grant  that  you  hold  it  honestly. 
Whence  has  it  come?  You  have  known  now  for  some 
years  what  I  have  had  in  view  for  you,  and  you  have 
not  resisted  it.  I  don't  think  I  am  mistaken  in  thinking 
that  you  had  accepted  it.  Am  I  right?" 

"  Yes,  I  did  accept  it  until  I  was  made  to  face  it 
definitely  one  way  or  the  other.  Then  it  seemed  to  me 
quite  plain  that  it  was  a  far  more  serious  thing  to 
undertake  than  I  had  thought  before.  And  I  can't  see 
any  possibility  of  my  ever  thinking  it  right  for  me  to 
undertake  it." 

"  We  seem  to  be  going  round  in  a  circle.  You  deny 
the  possibility  of  a  spiritual  change  in  yourself.  That 
is  what  it  comes  to." 

"  I  don't  think  so,  father.  I  know  my  conscience 
doesn't  tell  me  so.  But  I  think  that  everybody  ought 
to  try  to  do  the  work  that  he  is  best  fitted  for,  and  that 
he  can  only  be  quite  happy  in  the  world  if  he  does  so." 

"  I  recognize  the  source  of  that  sentiment,  Richard, 
and  I  deplore  that  you  have  given  yourself  over  to 
guidance  which  I  cannot  recognize  as  coming  from  the 
right  source.  But  you  are  too  old  now  for  me  to  dic- 
tate to  you  as  to  the  friends  and  companions  with 


HOW  THE  DECISION  WAS  RECEIVED     297 

whom  you  are  to  associate.  The  responsibility  rests 
with  yourself.  Only  let  me  tell  you  this,  that  there 
will  come  a  time  when  you  will  deeply  regret  having 
turned  aside  from  the  way  which  has  been  pointed  out 
to  you  ever  since  you  were  born." 

There  was  no  answer  to  be  given  to  this.  Richard 
wondered,  .with  a  dreary  sense  of  the  futility  of  the 
interview,  when  it  would  end.  Again  there  was  silence 
for  a  time.  John  Baldock  was  thinking.  He  was  a 
fanatic,  but  he  was  not  entirely  destitute  of  common 
sense.  "  You  say  that  you  are  anxious  to  go  to  Ox- 
ford," he  said  at  last.  "Why  is  that?" 

Richard  could  scarcely  say  that  the  delightful  free- 
dom of  an  undergraduate's  life  as  he  had  read  about  it, 
and  as  it  had  been  described  to  him  by  older  school- 
fellows of  his  own  who  were  now  enjoying  it,  appealed 
to  him  irresistibly,  that  he  wanted  to  work  and  talk 
and  laugh  and  play  in  company  with  his  fellows,  that  he 
wanted  to  be  a  man  among  men  and  to  try  his  powers  in 
a  larger  field  than  he  had  yet  known.  But  these  were 
the  only  reasons  that  made  him  so  eagerly  desire  Ox- 
ford, and  he  had  to  offer  some  expression  of  them  which 
would  not  grate  too  much  upon  his  father's  prejudices. 

"  I  like  school  now,"  he  said.  "  I  am  interested  in 
the  work,  and  I  like  being  with  the  other  boys.  It 
would  be  like  that  at  Oxford,  wouldn't  it,  only  much 
better?" 

John  Baldock  made  no  reply  to  this.  He  sat  for  a 
long  time,  his  head  on  his  hand,  his  eyes  bent  down- 
wards, pondering.  Richard  looked  out  through  the 
latticed  window  to  the  green  garden.  What  a  curious 
position  he  was  in,  trying  to  persuade  his  father  against 
something  that  he  eagerly  desired !  Why  should  he 
struggle  any  further  to  make  himself  understood?  He 


298  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

had  done  his  best.  If  his  father  still  persisted,  could 
he  not  take  what  was  offered  to  him  and  enjoy  it,  re- 
lieving himself  of  all  responsibility  in  the  matter?  He 
would  do  so,  he  told  himself,  with  a  last  warning  which 
should  be  as  straightforward  and  determined  as  he 
could  make  it.  But  as  he  said  this,  conscience  still 
replied  that  he  would  be  doing  wrong. 

"  I  see  how  it  is,"  said  John  Baldock,  raising  him- 
self. "  It  is  what  is  called  the  social  life  that  has  such 
great  attractions  for  you.  Perhaps  it  is  not  unnatural. 
It  meant  little  to  me.  I  don't  think  I  had  above  half-a- 
dozen  acquaintances  during  my  whole  time  at  the  Uni- 
versity, and  they  were  hard  reading  men ;  poor  men, 
like  myself,  whose  aims  were  very  different  from  those 
of  the  greater  part  of  the  men  around  us.  I  regard  the 
ordinary  social  life  of  Oxford  as  possessing  very  great 
dangers.  Certainly  it  is  the  last  sort  of  life  in  which  a 
man  who  has  the  responsibilities  of  the  ministry  in  front 
of  him  ought  to  take  part.  If  it  does  not  involve  idle- 
ness— as  it  very  often  does — it  means  frivolity,  revel- 
ling, very  often  sin  and  disgrace." 

"  It  wouldn't  mean  that  with  me,  father,"  said  Rich- 
ard, now  all  eager  to  plead ;  "  I  should  work  hard,  and 
I  should  spend  my  spare  time  very  much  as  I  do  now, 
only  I  should  have  more  companionship.  You  told  me 
that  you  did  not  mind  my  doing  the  things  that  I  do 
now  when  I  am  not  at  work." 

"  Nor  do  I  now.  You  are  a  boy.  At  Oxford  you 
would  be  a  man,  embarked  on  a  definite  course  of 
preparation  for  your  life-work.  I  confess  that  I  had 
not  thought  of  the  temptations  of  the  life.  I  had  looked 
upon  it  as  a  time  of  quiet  retired  study  and  prepara- 
tion, as  my  own  life  at  Oxford  was.  But  your  tem- 
perament is  very  different.  However  improved  your 


HOW  THE  DECISION  WAS  RECEIVED     299 

outlook  may,  and  I  trust  will,  be  in  the  future,  you  are 
not  at  present  constituted  so  as  to  resist  such  tempta- 
tion. I  think  perhaps  it  is  this  that  you  have  felt  at  the 
back  of  your  mind,  although  you  have  not  been  able 
to  express  it,  and  have  given  me  a  wrong  impression  of 
the  result  of  your  thoughts.  No,  you  are  right,  Rich- 
ard. I  see  it  now.  If  you  went  to  Oxford  it  could 
hardly  be  expected  that  you  could  be  brought  into  the 
state  of  mind  in  which  you  could  receive  the  revelation 
that  I  believe  will  come  to  you.  It  is  there  I  was  wrong. 
Not  in  the  main  object  of  my  desires  for  you,  but  in  this 
one  detail  of  carrying  them  out.  The  University  is  not 
the  only  training  ground  for  Holy  Orders.  There  are 
other  avenues.  I  must  think  them  over  carefully,  now 
that  this  light  has  come  to  me." 

Poor  Richard,  his  self-destructive  object  now  accom- 
plished, could  hardly  be  expected  to  receive  this  further 
proof  of  his  father's  still  determined  designs  with 
equanimity. 

"  It  is  not  of  the  slightest  use,  father,"  he  inter- 
rupted, with  some  impatience.  "  I  am  not  going  to 
take  Holy  Orders.  If  you  will  not  let  me  go  to  Oxford 
and  prepare  for  some  other  profession — 

He  did  not  finish  this  sentence.  John  Baldock  rose 
from  his  seat  and  stood  over  him.  "  Then,  Richard," 
he  cried,  "  I  wash  my  hands  of  you.  I  will  resist  you 
no  longer.  Your  obstinacy  is  grievous  and  wicked.  Go 
youi  own  way,  and  the  responsibility  be  on  your  own 
shoulders." 

Richard  rose  and  left  the  room  without  another  word. 
His  heart  was  sore  within  him.  He  had  tried  to  do 
right.  He  had  fought  against  a  temptation  which  had 
dressed  itself  in  all  the  plausible  allurements  of  obedi- 
ence and  righteousness,  and  had  overcome  it.  And  this 


300  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

was  his  reward.  There  was  nothing  to  lighten  his  de- 
pression. The  whole  of  his  life  seemed  to  lie  in  ruins 
around  him,  and  it  seemed  impossible  that  he  should 
take  pleasure  in  it  again.  His  anger  against  his  father 
burned  hotly,  and  suffered  no  diminution  when  they  met 
at  dinner  an  hour  or  two  later,  and  he  found  that  the 
attitude  to  be  adopted  towards  him  was  one  of  silent 
and  accusing  displeasure.  He  made  one  or  two  re- 
marks during  the  course  of  the  meal,  which  were  received 
either  in  silence  or  with  curt  unfriendly  replies.  Then 
he  relapsed  into  silence  himself  and  brooded  on  the  in- 
justice with  which  he  was  treated. 

This  state  of  things  lasted  for  several  days.  Rich- 
ard's anger  against  his  father  died  down  in  some  meas- 
ure, but  its  place  was  taken  by  a  feeling  very  near 
contempt.  If  his  father  liked  to  sulk  in  that  ridiculous 
way,  he  said  to  himself,  disrespectfully,  he  might  do  so 
as  long  as  he  pleased.  He  should  take  no  steps  to  put 
him  in  a  more  amiable  temper. 

It  was  curious  that  now  the  question  had  been  de- 
cided once  for  all,  and  Oxford  had  retired  out  of  his 
reach  as  Rugby  had  done  five  years  before,  his  disap- 
pointment had  become  eased  of  some  of  its  sting.  The 
world  was  before  him,  and,  however  much  he  had  been 
prepared  to  make  the  best  of  another  year  at  school 
when  that  had  been  the  prelude  to  the  delights  of  the 
University,  there  was  no  doubt  that  independence  and 
some  definite  occupation  other  than  that  of  learning 
out  of  books  presented  still  greater  attractions.  He 
thought  it  unlikely  that  his  father,  when  he  should  have 
come  to  his  senses  and  be  ready  to  look  facts  in  the  face 
again,  would  wish  him  to  go  back  to  school  again  at  all, 
and  there  was  some  excitement  of  quite  a  pleasurable 
kind  in  casting  about  in  his  mind  for  a  calling  which 


HOW  THE  DECISION  WAS  RECEIVED     301 

he  could  take  up  at  once,  which  would  provide  him  with 
a  small  but  rapidly  increasing  livelihood,  complete  inde- 
pendence, and  work  which  he  could  thoroughly  enjoy 
doing.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  such  openings  were 
somewhat  rare.  He  was  young  and  adventurous. 
There  were  so  many  things  that  he  might  do  now  that 
it  was  open  to  him  to  do  anything  he  liked,  and  he  did 
not  despair  of  lighting  upon  something  that  would 
lead  him  to  fame  and  fortune,  and  that  by  the  most 
agreeable  and  expeditious  of  routes. 

He  was  lying  under  his  favourite  beech  throwing  little 
sticks  and  stones  idly  into  the  water  when  there  occurred 
to  him  in  a  flash  of  memory  the  words  of  his  friend 
Meaking :  "  In  whatever  business  I  am,  there'll  always 
be  a  place  for  you."  His  hand  upraised  dropped  to 
his  side,  and  he  looked  out  into  space  suddenly  struck 
with  an  idea.  He  recalled  the  occasion  on  which  the 
words  had  been  spoken.  It  was  when  they  had  ridden 
to  Exton  together  two  or  three  years  before.  Mea- 
king had  talked  to  him  then  about  his  future,  and  he 
remembered  now  that  he  had  opposed  the  idea  of  his 
becoming  a  clergyman,  and  advanced  much  the  same 
arguments  against  it  as  he  himself  had  lately  used  in 
his  deliberations.  And  he  had  talked  about  his  own  in- 
terests in  life  too,  and  it  was  then  that  he  had  given 
the  invitation  which  had  risen  to  the  surface  of  Rich- 
ard's mind. 

He  considered  the  suggestion  with  growing  appre- 
ciation of  the  possibilities  it  opened  out.  Meaking  had 
now  got  a  share  in  Mr.  Gannett's  business,  had  in  fact 
the  entire  management  of  it,  for  the  old  man  was  in 
failing  health  and  did  little  more  than  work  at  his 
catalogues  and  advise  in  the  branch  of  the  trade  that 
he  had  made  specially  his  own.  It  could  not  be  long 


302  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

before  ^leaking  would  have  the  whole  of  the  business 
in  his  hands,  and  it  was  a  thriving  business,  as  Richard 
knew,  for  his  friend  kept  little  from  him,  and  Mrs. 
Meaking  was  living  in  a  state  of  surpassing  gentility. 
He  grew  more  and  more  enamoured  of  the  idea  of  tak- 
ing part  in  it.  It  had  to  do  with  books,  and  books  he 
increasingly  loved.  No  other  business  he  could  engage 
in  would  present  such  charms,  and  he  supposed  that 
business  would  have  to  be  his  lot,  as  it  was  unlikely  he 
would  be  able  to  qualify  for  one  of  the  learned  profes- 
sions. The  fact  that  by  entering  it  he  would  commit 
himself  to  the  plane  of  retail  trade  did  not  trouble 
him,  did  not  enter  into  his  thoughts.  There  is  some- 
thing of  fascination  to  most  minds  in  the  idea  of  mak- 
ing money  by  trade,  and  retail  trade  presents  the  most 
easily  grasped  illustration  of  the  process.  The  more  his 
thoughts  dwelt  on  the  idea  the  better  he  liked  it,  and  at 
last  he  sprang  up  from  his  couch  on  the  bank  of  the 
stream  and  went  off  to  saddle  his  pony,  determined  to 
lose  no  time  in  consulting  Meaking  on  the  subject.  It 
\vas  twelve  o'clock,  and  if  he  rode  to  Storbridge  now 
he  would  be  away  from  the  early  dinner  at  which  he  and 
his  father  met.  He  had  never  taken  this  step  before 
without  asking  permission,  but  on  this  occasion  he  did 
nothing  but  leave  a  message  that  he  would  not  be  home 
until  late  in  the  afternoon,  saddled  his  pony,  and  rode 
off. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

MEAKING'S  PROPOSAL 

You  must  imagine  Richard,  now  at  the  beginning  of  the 
nineteenth  year  of  his  age,  as  a  young  man  who  had 
already  attained  to  his  full  height  of  about  five  foot 
ten.  His  fair  hair  still  curled  over  his  broad  forehead 
and  pleasant  open  face,  and  his  blue  eyes  smiled  at  the 
world  and  hid  nothing  secret  or  shameful.  Dressed  in 
rough  tweeds,  and  mounted  on  a  young  mare  of  awk- 
ward paces  and  no  great  beauty,  which  he  had  recently 
acquired  as  the  result  of  much  bargaining,  his  forest 
ponies  being  no  longer  up  to  his  weight,  he  was  never- 
theless a  figure  at  which  you  would  have  turned  to  look 
if  you  had  met  him  trotting  along  the  lanes  on  that 
August  morning,  so  well  did  he  sit  in  the  saddle,  and  so 
full  of  life  and  youth  was  his  slim,  active  figure. 

He  found  Meaking  just  leaving  the  shop  to  go  up  to 
his  dinner. 

"Hullo,  Dick!"  his  friend  greeted  him.  "There's 
nobody  I'd  rather  see  than  you.  I  quite  miss  you  when 
the  holidays  are  on.  Come  up  and  have  a  bit  of  dinner 
with  mother  and  me." 

"  Are  you  sure  it's  convenient?  "  asked  Richard.  "  I 
wanted  to  see  you  about  something  important-,  so  I 
came  straight  off.  I  didn't  think  about  coming  to 
dinner." 

"  I  dare  say  mother  will  make  a  fuss,"  returned  Mea- 
king, cheerfully.  "  But  there's  sure  to  be  enough. 
Come  on." 

803 


304  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

They  went  upstairs  to  a  large  old-fashioned  room 
with  window  seats  under  latticed  casements  overlooking 
the  street.  A  smell  of  roast  mutton,  agreeable  enough 
to  hungry  youth,  pervaded  it.  The  table  was  laid  for 
two.  The  clean  tablecloth  and  shining  plate  and  glass 
spoke  well  for  Meaking's  prosperity  and  the  scale  on 
which  he  lived,  which  was  above  that  to  which  Richard 
was  accustomed  at  home.  He  looked  round  him  with 
renewed  interest  at  the  comfortable  room  with  its  easy 
chairs,  its  books,  and  its  new  bright  carpet,  and  thought 
it  would  be  pleasant  to  furnish  and  occupy  such  a 
room  of  his  own,  while  Meaking  went  out  to  prepare 
his  mother  for  an  addition  to  their  party. 

By  and  by  they  both  came  in  together,  Mrs.  Mea- 
king with  a  hot  face,  in  an  undoubted  fluster. 

"  Really,  Mr.  Richard,"  she  simpered.  "  I  am  quite 
ashamed  to  receive  you  like  this.  I  don't  know  what 
you'll  think  of  us,  I'm  sure;  me  in  an  old  dress,  and 
nothing  nice  as  I  could  wish  to  have  it  when  honoured 
by  a  visit." 

"  Oh,  come,  mother,"  expostulated  Meaking.  "  We'll 
give  him  as  good  a  dinner  as  he  gets  any  day  of  his 
life.  A  hot  leg  of  mutton  and  a  roly-poly  pudding. 
You  couldn't  have  anything  better  than  that.  You 
don't  give  him  much  of  a  welcome." 

"  I'm  sure  I'm  delighted  to  see  Mr.  Richard  when- 
ever he  comes,"  said  Mrs.  Meaking,  "  if  he  doesn't  mind 
taking  us  as  we  are,  and  will  make  allowances." 

"  That's  all  right,  then,"  said  Meaking.  "  Let's  go 
into  my  room  and  have  a  wash,  Dick,  and  dinner  will 
be  ready  for  us  when  we  come  back." 

"  Mother's  as  pleased  as  Punch,  really,"  he  explained, 
as  he  took  off  his  coat  in  his  bedroom.  "  I  can  give 
her  pretty  well  what  she  wants  now.  She  keeps  a  serv- 


MEAKING'S  PROPOSAL  305 

ant,  though  she  don't  leave  much  for  her  to  do.  Still, 
it's  cheap  and  makes  her  happy.  The  only  thing  she 
doesn't  like  is  living  over  a  shop,  but  we'll  alter  that 
some  day,  I  dare  say." 

"I  think  you  live  jolly  comfortably,"  said  Richard. 

"  Well,  I  do.  I  can  afford  it  now,  and  I  believe  in 
living  comfortably.  Eat  well  and  you'll  work  well. 
That's  one  of  my  mottoes.  And  how  goes  it  with  you, 
Dick?  When  are  you  coming  back  to  school?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  I'm  coming  back.  I  wanted 
to  talk  to  you  about  that  and  about  something 
else." 

"  Ho,  ho !  "  commented  Meaking.  "  Well,  perhaps 
we'd  better  leave  it  till  after  dinner.  Then  we  can  have 
a  yarn  for  as  long  as  you  like.  There's  not  much 
doing  now,  and  they  can  always  send  up  for  me  if  I'm 
wanted." 

When  they  got  back  to  the  sitting-room  they  still 
had  to  wait  a  short  time,  for  Mrs.  Meaking  had  con- 
sidered it  necessary  to  make  an  alteration  in  her  cos- 
tume, and  could  now  be  heard  coaching  her  hitherto 
invisible  helper,  in  subdued  but  anxious  voice,  in  her 
duties.  A  shade  of  annoyance  came  over  Meaking's 
face,  as  his  mother  sailed  into  the  room  in  a  black  silk 
dress  and  a  lace  collar,  and  apologized  for  the  delay 
by  explaining  that  she  had  a  new  servant  who  had  not 
yet  got  into  her  ways.  "  However  others  may  choose 
to  live,"  said  Mrs.  Meaking,  "  I  like  to  have  things 
nice,  and  the  trouble  I  have  in  teaching  servants  to 
behave  genteel  passes  belief." 

The  small  servant  who  presently  made  her  appear- 
ance in  a  short  black  frock,  a  cap,  and  an  apron,  like  a 
child  playing  at  houses,  may  have  tickled  Mrs.  Mea- 
king's sense  of  gentility,  but  she  was  an  undisguised 


306  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

nuisance  /rom  every  other  point  of  view.  She  relied  so 
much  upon  her  mistress's  promptings  to  tell  her  how 
she  was  to  deal  with  the  thousand-and-one  problems 
that  arose  during  the  course  of  the  meal,  that  the 
simplest  operation  was  enveloped  in  a  haze  of  whispers 
and  frowns  and  nudges,  and  conversation  became  an 
impossibility  until  every  one  had  been  completely  sup- 
plied, and  then  the  poor  child  was  instructed  to  stand 
behind  Mrs.  Meaking's  chair  where  she  spent  her  time 
audibly  sniffing,  her  eyes  bent  in  an  agonized  gaze  upon 
the  back  of  her  mistress's  head,  and  at  the  slightest 
sign  darted  from  her  point  of  vantage  to  offer  wildly 
something  that  nobody  in  the  least  required. 

"  Oh,  do  let  Louisa  go  out  of  the  room,"  expostu- 
lated Meaking  at  last,  "  and  let's  help  ourselves.  We 
shall  get  on  twice  as  well."  The  obvious  completion  of 
the  sentence,  "  and  let's  help  ourselves  "  was  "  as  we 
always  do."  But  Meaking  was  loyal,  and  tender  of  his 
mother's  weaknesses. 

Mrs.  Meaking  flushed.  "  I  think  you  had  better  do 
so,  Louisa,"  she  said,  severely.  "  I  don't  know  what 
can  have  come  over  you  to-day." 

Louisa  fled,  her  dread  of  the  scolding  to  come  later 
being  tempered  by  the  most  obvious  relief.  Mrs.  Mea- 
king made  certain  excuses  and  explanations,  which 
Richard  received  with  politeness,  and  the  rest  of  the 
meal  passed  in  a  grateful  peace. 

"  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  Dick,  mother,"  said 
Meaking,  when  it  was  over,  "  if  you  don't  mind  leaving 
us  here  alone  for  a  bit." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Meaking.  "  Louisa  needn't 
clear  away  yet.  Perhaps  you'll  bring  Mr.  Richard  to 
say  good-bye  to  me  in  the  drawing-room  before  he 
goes." 


MEAKING'S  PROPOSAL  307 

"  All  right,"  said  Meaking,  shortly,  and  the  two 
young  men  were  left  alone  together. 

"  Well,  John,"  said  Richard,  "  I've  made  up  my  mind. 
I'm  not  going  to  be  a  clergyman,  and  I'm  not  going  to 
Oxford." 

"  Not  going  to  Oxford !  "  exclaimed  Meaking.  "  But 
that's  rather  a  change  round,  isn't  it?" 

"  I've  had  it  all  out  with  my  father.  It's  a  long 
itory,  and  I  needn't  go  into  it.  But  it  comes  to  this, 
that  the  only  chance  I  ever  had  of  going  to  Oxford 
was  to  prepare  for  the  Church,  and  the  one  goes  with 
the  other." 

"  I'm  not  surprised  that  you  don't  see  your  way  to  go 
into  the  Church.  You  know  my  views  on  that  subject. 
It  isn't  the  work  you  are  cut  out  for.  And  you've 
come  to  feel  that  yourself,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  think  our  views  are  much  the  same  on  that 
question,  but  it  needed  a  lot  of  thinking  out,  and  I 
must  say  that  to  lose  Oxford  was  a  very  great  dis- 
appointment to  me." 

"  I'm  glad  you  had  the  strength  of  mind  to  give  it 
up,  Dick.  I  honour  you  for  it.  And  what  are  you 
going  to  do  now  ?  " 

"  I  want  a  job  in  your  business." 

Meaking's  face  expressed  gratification.  "  Oh,  you 
do,  do  you?  "  he  said.  Then  he  laughed  aloud. 

Richard  smiled  back  at  him.  "  You  promised,  you 
know,"  he  said.  "  And  I  want  to  begin  at  once." 

"  Well,"  said  Meaking,  "  you're  welcome  to  what- 
ever I  can  do  for  you.  Whether  it's  much  or  little  at 
present  remains  to  be  considered.  Does  your  father 
know  of  this  yet?  " 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  my  father  and  I  are  not  on 
speaking  terms  just  now.  He  can't  see  my  reasons  for 


308  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

refusing  to  do  as  he  wishes,  and  in  fact  he  told  me  two 
or  three  days  ago  that  he  washed  his  hands  of  me." 

"  I'm  sorry  for  that.  But  of  course  he'll  come 
round?  " 

"  I  suppose  so.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  I  must 
look  out  for  something  to  do  myself.  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  think  I'm  as  capable  of  finding  work  as  he  is. 
He  has  no  connections  that  would  help  me,  so  far  as  I 
know,  and  no  money  to  give  me  a  start  with." 

"  No  money,  eh?  " 

"  No.  His  living  is  not  worth  much,  you  know,  and 
he  gives  away  as  much  as  ever  he  can  afford.  But  why? 
Is  money  necessary  if  you  give  me  a  job?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  how  the  matter  stands.  The  business 
is  going  up  steadily.  What  I  call  the  legitimate  book- 
selling business  has  about  reached  its  limits.  There's 
no  scope  for  further  enlargement  here.  But  the  book- 
binding that  I  took  on  a  year  ago — you  remember — 
is  increasing,  and  I  am  beginning  to  see  a  big  develop- 
ment in  it.  But,  if  I'm  to  do  what  I  want  to  do,  I  must 
take  to  printing  as  well.  Now  there's  that  old-fashioned 
business  of  Morton's  in  the  High  Street.  Morton's  an 
old  man ;  he's  made  his  money  and  he  doesn't  care.  The 
business  is  going  down  and  down,  and  I  believe  he'd  sell 
it  at  practically  the  value  of  his  machinery  and  stock. 
I  don't  think  he'd  want  anything  for  goodwill,  and,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  if  he  goes  on  as  he's  going  on  now  for 
another  year  or  two  there  won't  be  any  goodwill  worth 
a  cent.  The  machinery's  old-fashioned,  but  it  would  do 
to  make  a  start  with,  and  I  could  get  it  dirt  cheap. 
Well,  I've  saved  altogether  about  fifty  pounds  with 
what  I  had  when  I  came  here.  It  isn't  much,  but  I've 
only  been  a  partner  for  a  year,  and  of  course  I  don't 
get  a  very  big  share,  and  mother  and  I  live  well,  as  you 


HEARING'S  PROPOSAL  300 

see.  Mr.  Gannett  has  put  by  about  two  hundred  since 
I  came  here.  I  know  that.  But  to  tell  you  the  truth  I 
don't  want  Mr.  Gannett  in  it.  I  only  get  a  quarter 
share,  and  the  time  has  come  when,  if  I  am  to  make 
the  business  go  ahead  any  further,  I  want  to  reap  the 
benefit  of  it  myself.  Now  if  I  could  get  hold  of  another 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  or  so,  I  think  I  could  make 
arrangements  both  with  Mr.  Gannett  and  with  old 
Morton  that  would  give  me  everything  I  wanted  for 
an  entirely  new  departure  that  might  mean  big  things 
in  the  future." 

"  I  see,"  said  Richard,  who  saw  in  fact  very  little. 

"  As  far  as  you're  concerned,"  Meaking  continued, 
"  whatever  happens  there's  a  job  here  for  you.  I  don't 
go  back  from  my  word  there.  I  don't  want  to.  I  want 
you  with  me,  and  really,  Dick,  old  boy,  I  was  as  pleased 
as  Punch  just  now  when  you  told  me  that  you  wanted 
to  come  in  with  me,  and  come  in  at  once.  I  can  make 
my  way  all  right  by  myself,  but  I'm  like  that  that  I'd 
rather  do  it  in  company  with  somebody  else.  I  dare  say 
a  wife  might  serve  the  purpose  if  she  was  the  right  sort, 
and  I  own  I  have  thought  of  getting  married  more 
than  once.  But  marriage  is  a  lottery,  I  always  say, 
and  you'd  be  worse  off  than  you  were  before  if  you 
married  the  wrong  person.  Besides,  I  don't  know  many 
people  in  the  social  way,  and  I've  never  seen  a  girl  I've 
begun  to  want  to  marry  yet.  So  I've  given  up  that 
idea,  at  all  events  for  the  present. 

"  Well,  I'm  getting  off  the  lines.  But  it  helps  me  to 
give  my  tongue  its  run.  My  ideas  get  put  better  in 
the  end.  What  I  mean  is  that  a  chum  such  as  you  is 
what  I  want  to  work  with,  so'?  I  can  be  completely 
happy  in  what  I'm  doing  and  laying  out  for  the  future, 
and  you,  especially,  not  only  because  I  like  you  better 


310  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

than  anybody,  but  because  you've  got  qualities  which'll 
help  in  this  business — education  and  knowledge  up  to  a 
certain  point,  and  a  pleasant  way  with  you,  and  so  on. 
So  there's  the  job.  In  the  ordinary  way  it'd  simply 
be  as  an  assistant  at  the  ordinary  salary,  and  working 
up  to  a  partnership,  just  as  I've  worked  with  Mr.  Gan- 
nett, and  I'd  see  that  you  got  every  chance  of  learning 
the  details  of  the  business  and  fitting  yourself  to  be 
worth  as  much  to  me  as  possible.  I  tell  you  it  wouldn't 
be  a  bad  opening  for  you.  But  it  so  happens  from  what 
I've  told  you  that  just  at  this  time  I  could  do  better 
for  you  than  that  if  you  could  bring  a  bit  of  money 
into  the  business.  I  could  get  the  money,  on  terms,  all 
right;  in  fact,  if  it  wasn't  just  you  that  I  want  to  be 
with  me,  they'd  be  easier  terms  by  a  good  deal  than  I 
should  offer  you  for  it.  I  shouldn't  be  coming  to  your 
father  and  asking  for  cash  to  bolster  up  a  rotten  con- 
cern. It  would  be  a  very  different  proposition  I  should 
have  to  put  before  him.  Now  don't  you  think  he  could 
find,  say,  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  to  give  you  a 
start  in  a  business  that  you  and  I  together  could  work 
up  into  a  big  thing?  You  wouldn't  get  such  a  chance 
anywhere  else,  I'm  certain  of  that." 

"  I  don't  know  at  all,"  said  Richard.  "  I  don't  know 
anything  about  his  affairs  except  what  he  told  me  the 
other  day.  He  said  he  had  about  seventy  pounds  saved 
up  for  me  which  my  aunt  sent  me  from  time  to  time 
when  I  was  little." 

"  Well,  come  now,  there's  half  of  it." 

"  Yes,  but  I  don't  think  there's  much  more.  He  said 
he  would  have  to  make  up  the  rest  of  what  I  should  want 
at  Oxford  if  I  went  there  out  of  what  he  gives  away  in 
charity.  And  I'm  pretty  sure  he  wouldn't  do  it  for 
anything  else." 


MEAKING'S  PROPOSAL  311 

"  Anything  else  but  Oxford  ?  " 

"  Only  that  if  it  meant  preparing  for  the  Church, 
and  not  otherwise." 

"  I  see.  Well,  I  think  I'd  better  talk  to  him  about 
it.  I  might  manage  with  a  bit  less  than  a  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds.  I'd  do  my  level  best  to  make  it  as  easy 
for  you  as  I  could.  I  haven't  told  you  yet  what  I 
should  be  prepared  to  do,  Dick.  I  should  buy  Mr. 
Gannett  out — not  with  cash  down,  of  course,  but  I  could 
make  an  arrangement.  I've  already  sounded  him  about 
it,  and  I  don't  think  he'd  make  any  objection.  His 
name  would  remain  here  as  long  as  he  lived,  and  he'd  go 
on  doing  just  the  work  he  wanted.  Then  we  should 
start  in  partnership — at  once,  my  boy,  and  on  equal 
terms.  That's  what  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
will  do  for  you  if  you  can  raise  it,  or  your  father 
can.  I  don't  think  you'll  get  such  an  offer  elsewhere, 
eh?" 

It  was,  indeed,  a  munificent  offer — far  more  munifi- 
cent than  Richard  in  his  complete  ignorance  of  business 
matters  could  possibly  realize,  and  showed  a  remark- 
able strain  of  sentiment  in  the  otherwise  hard-headed, 
alert-minded  young  man  who  made  it. 

"  I  want  you  with  me,  Dick,"  he  repeated,  when 
Richard  had  feebly  expressed  his  thanks.  "  I'll  do 
twice  as  good  work.  We'll  be  as  happy  as  the  day  is 
long  struggling  up  together  and  we'll  be  rich  men  in 
no  time." 

They  talked  a  little  longer,  both  of  them  waxing 
more  and  more  enthusiastic  over  the  future,  and  it  was 
arranged  that  Meaking  should  come  over  to  Beechurst 
on  the  following  morning  and  disclose  his  proposal  to 
Richard's  father.  Then  Richard  left,  having  first  bid- 
den good-bye  to  Mrs.  Meaking  in  her  drawing-room,  a 


312  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

room  of  about  ten  feet  square,  in  which  she  was  dis- 
covered realistically  reading  a  book. 

He  rode  home  in  the  highest  spirits.  The  life  of 
independence  was  about  to  begin  for  him,  and  he  looked 
forward  to  it  with  fervour  and  delight.  His  late  dis- 
appointment had  faded  away  completely,  and  if  he  had 
now  been  told  that  after  all  he  was  to  continue  at  school 
for  another  year  and  then  go  to  Oxford  he  would  have 
undergone  a  second  disappointment. 

Judging  it  to  be  politic  to  prepare  his  father  for 
Meaking's  visit  on  the  morrow,  he  sought  him  out  di- 
rectly he  reached  home,  and  found  him,  as  usual,  in  his 
study. 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  father,  if  I  may,"  he  said. 

John  Baldock  looked  at  him  with  disfavour. 

"  You  have  not  come  to  tell  me  that  you  have  re- 
pented of  your  misguided  decision,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 

"  No.  I  am  sorry  that  you  do  not  agree  with  me 
about  that,  but  I  have  made  up  my  mind." 

"  Then  I  do  not  think  that  there  is  anything  I  can  dis- 
cuss with  you  at  present." 

"  I  hope  you  will  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say.  I 
have  been  over  to  Storbridge  to-day,  and  seen  Meaking, 
who  is  now  a  partner  in  Mr.  Gannett's  business.  There 
is  a  good  opening  for  me  there,  and  I  should  like  to  take 
it  and  begin  work  at  once,  if  you  are  satisfied  with  what 
he  offers  me." 

"  If  I  am  satisfied.  You  know  very  well  that  I  can- 
not be  satisfied  with  any  occupation  for  you  other  than 
that  I  have  always  had  in  my  mind." 

"  Can't  you  leave  that  out  now,  father?  I  have  done 
my  best  to  decide  rightly,  and " 

"  I  will  not  discuss  it  any  further.  It  would  only  lead 
Ito  the  old  useless  round  of  argument.  You  set  yourself 


definitely  against  me.  You  must  understand  that  I 
refuse  to  help  you  further.  You  must  take  your  own 
line,  irrespective  of  me." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  that  you  feel  like  that  about  it, 
father.  If  you  really  mean  that  you  are  going  to  leave 
me  entirely  to  myself,  I  shall  take  whatever  position 
Meaking  is  ready  to  offer  me  in  his  business.  But  I 
hoped  you  would  talk  it  over  with  me,  because " 

*'  You  must  understand,  Richard,  that  I  am  not  only 
sore  and  angry  about  your  refusal  to  continue  in  the 
path  I  had  marked  out  for  you,  but  that  I  regard  it 
as  a  deliberate  resistance  of  Divine  will  on  your  part. 
You  can  hardly  expect  me  to  put  all  that  from  my 
mind,  and  acquiesce  in  a  step  that  would  finally  cut  you 
off  from  all  chances  of  getting  into  the  right  path." 

Richard  thought  for  a  moment  as  to  how  he  was  to 
overcome  this  curious  obstinacy.  "  You  know,  father," 
he  said,  "  if  it  is  to  happen  as  you  think  it  will,  and  I 
am  to  be  brought  to  see  that  it  is  right  for  me  to  take 
Orders,  there  will  be  nothing  to  prevent  me  doing  so 
later  on." 

His  father's  face  brightened  a  little.  "  You  are  be- 
ginning to  think  over  it,  and  are  being  drawn  towards 
the  idea  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  mean  that.  But 
I  must  do  something  to  earn  my  own  living,  mustn't  I? 
I  can't  simply  sit  still  and  no  nothing." 

John  Baldock  reflected.  "  I  have  felt  so  strongly — 
still  feel  so  strongly  that  I  am  right  in  this  matter,"  he 
said,  "  that  it  is  almost  impossible  for  me  to  discuss  an 
alternative  to  the  course  I  have  had  in  mind.  But  I 
cannot  fight  against  your  obstinate  determination  if 
you  have  made  up  your  mind.  I  have  no  weapons — 
none,  at  least,  that  I  should  think  it  right  to  use.  I 


314  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

shall  certainly  not  keep  you  at  school  any  longer.  You 
are  eighteen  years  of  age,  and  I  should  have  taken  you 
away  before  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  hopes  for  you. 
You  are  right  in  saying  that  you  must  do  something  to 
earn  your  own  living,  but  I  have  never  thought  of  hav- 
ing to  find  an  opening  for  you.  I  do  not  know  where 
I  should  have  looked.  What  is  this  proposal  you  have 
had  made  to  you?  " 

Probably  there  was  some  curiosity  at  the  back  of 
this  question,  but  there  was  no  doubt  that  with  all  his 
odd  twists  and  perversities  of  character,  John  Baldock 
had  a  genuine  conviction  that  he  had  been  taught  of 
God  that  Richard  was  to  follow  the  course  which  for 
years  he  had  designed  for  him,  and  was  disturbed  and 
grieved  at  the  downfall  of  his  hopes.  The  boy  realized 
this,  and  was  less  resentful  of  his  father's  obduracy  than 
he  might  have  been.  He  explained  that  Meaking  had 
offered  him  a  situation  in  his  shop  in  any  case,  but 
that  if  he  could  bring  some  money  into  the  business 
there  would  be  an  opening  for  him  as  a  partner. 

"  You  may  put  that  out  of  your  head  at  once,"  said 
his  father,  when  he  had  finished.  "  I  have  no  money  to 
do  such  a  thing,  and  would  not  use  it  in  that  way  if  I 
had.  I  should  consider  it  as  definitely  locking  the  door 
on  the  calling  which  I  hope  you  will  even  now  take  np. 
In  any  case  I  cannot  think  that  this  offer  can  be  a  very 
serious  one.  I  do  not  know  much  about  business,  but  I 
am  quite  sure  that  nobody  would  offer  a  schoolboy  of 
eighteen  a  half  share  in  any  business  for  a  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  if  it  was  worth  anything." 

This  seemed  so  reasonable  that  Richard  began  to 
have  doubts  whether  he  had,  indeed,  grasped  the  pro- 
posal set  before  him. 

M  He  says  he  wants  me  with  him,"  he  explained ; 


MEAKING'S  PROPOSAL  315 

"  that  we  can  work  well  together,  and  that  there  is  an 
opening  for  him  to  use  money  in  his  business." 

"  It  is  not  of  the  slightest  use  even  talking  it  over, 
for  I  have  no  money  that  I  could  apply  to  such  an 
object,  even  if  I  judged  it  wise  to  do  so." 

"  There  is  the  seventy  pounds  which  you  told  me 
Aunt  Henrietta  had  given  me  when  I  was  a  child." 

"  Which  I  am  not  in  the  least  prepared  to  hand  over 
to  you  for  any  purpose  but  preparation  for  the  life 
it  would  be  right  for  you  to  take  up.  Not  at  any  rate 
until  you  are  of  age,  when  you  can  have  it  to  do  what 
you  like  with." 

"  Well,  I  hope  father,  you  will  let  Meaking  talk  to 
you  about  it.  He  is  coming  to  see  you  to-morrow 
morning." 

"  I  shall  have  no  objection  to  talking  with  him.  But 
I  tell  you  definitely,  as  I  shall  tell  him,  that  it  is  use- 
less to  apply  to  me  for  money  to  help  him  in  his 
schemes.  You  had  better  leave  me  now,  for  I  am 
busy." 

Richard  went  out  to  walk  in  the  forest,  and  to  turn 
matters  over  in  his  mind.  His  father's  refusal  to  help 
him  in  any  way  did  not  weigh  on  him  as  much  as  might 
have  been  expected.  For  one  thing  he  had  hardly 
anticipated  acquiescence,  and  for  another  he  was  hardly 
old  enough  to  realize  the  difference  it  might  make  to 
him  to  be  able  to  join  his  friend  as  a  partner  in  his 
business  rather  than  to  accept  a  subordinate  position 
:n  it.  It  was  the  work  and  the  new  departure  in  his 
life  that  filled  his  thoughts,  and  of  these  he  was  assured 
in  any  case.  His  mind  dwelt  upon  them  with  the  utmost 
^xriilaration,  and  he  would  dearly  have  liked  to  be  set- 
ting out  for  Storbridge  the  very  next  morning  to  en- 
gage in  the  delightful  occupations  of  business,  which  tQ 


316  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

one  who  is  of  an  age  to  dispense  altogether  with  the 
thought  of  failure  wear  as  romantic  an  aspect  as  any. 

He  had  come  into  the  wood  behind  the  Hall,  to  the 
spot  at  which  he  had  first  made  the  acquaintance  of  lit- 
tle Lettice  two  years  before.  He  looked  up  and  recog- 
nized the  hawthorn  bush  and  the  great  oak  with  a  flash 
of  memory,  and  the  next  moment  little  Lettice  herself 
was  before  him  laughing  a  roguish  welcome. 

"What  were  you  thinking  of,  Dick?"  she  said. 
"  You  looked  as  solemn  as  an  old  owl,  and  I  believe 
if  I  had  stood  quite  still  you  would  have  gone  by  with- 
out seeing  me." 

"  But  I  thought  you  were  abroad,"  said  Richard. 

"  We  crossed  last  night  and  got  here  this  morning. 
Grandpapa  got  tired  of  Dinard,  where  we  were  staying, 
and  indeed  it  is  an  atrocious  place,  all  dresses  and 
giggles  and  loud  music.  Yesterday,  I  said :  '  Do  let 
us  go  back  to  our  dear  forest,'  and  Grandpapa  said: 
'  There  is  no  better  place.  We  will  cross  to-night ' — 
you  know  his  way.  And  so  here  we  are,  and  I  have 
been  out  all  the  afternoon  thinking  I  might  see  you. 
Dick,  now  you  must  tell  me  a  secret.  It  is  a  month 
since  I  saw  you." 

Richard  laughed.  "  You  little  rogue,"  he  said. 
"  You  know  all  the  secrets  of  the  forest  as  well  as  I 
do  now.  But  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  back. 
Beechurst  is  very  dull  without  you  and  Mr.  Ventrey." 

"  Come  in  and  see  Grandpapa,"  said  the  child. 
"  He'll  be  90  pleased  to  see  you  again,  Dick." 

Then  went  into  the  house,  and  found  the  Squire  in 
the  library.  "  Well,  my  young  friend,"  he  greeted 
Richard.  "  Here  we  are  back  again,  you  see.  And  what 
have  you  got  to  tell  us  about  yourself?  " 

"  A  great  deal."  Richard  replied,  his  heart  lightening 


MEAKING'S  PROPOSAL  81T 

at  the  thought  of  talking  over  what  had  happened  and 
was  about  to  happen  to  him  to  this  kind  and  sympa- 
thetic friend.  "  I  should  like  to  have  a  talk  with  you 
after  tea,  Mr.  Ventrey,  if  I  may." 

"  The  little  bird  will  go  and  amuse  herself  upstairs 
for  a  bit,"  said  the  Squire,  "  and  we  will  talk  together." 


CHAPTER    X 

DISCUSSIONS 

WHEN  the  tea  had  been  taken  away,  and  Lettice  had 
left  them,  Richard  told  his  tale.  It  seemed  to  give 
the  Squire  food  for  thought,  and  some  surprise. 

"  You  gave  up  the  chance  of  Oxford ! "  he  said. 
"  Wasn't  that  a  little  unwise?  " 

Richard  looked  and  felt  disappointed.  He  thought 
that  his  friend  would  have  understood  him. 

"  I  don't  see  what  else  I  could  have  done,"  he  said. 
"  Perhaps  I  haven't  explained  properly  what  I  thought 
about  it  all." 

The  Squire  reflected  for  a  moment.  "  I  think  you 
have,"  he  said.  "  Perhaps  I  failed  to  take  into  account 
what  your  father  thought  about  it.  It  is  difficult  to 
understand  how — but  I  suppose  it  is  so.  He  was  quite 
determined  that  you  should  follow  out  his  wishes  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then,  my  dear  boy,  I  think  you  made  the  only 
decision  that  you  honestly  could.  And  I  am  glad  you 
made  it.  The  clear  call — yes,  he  is  right — it  may  come 
to  a  man.  There  are  many  things  that  may  be  shown 
to  you.  I  should  be  unwilling  to  deny  that  the  clerical 
life  is  one  of  them.  But  I  take  it  that  what  you  have 
to  rest  your  mind  on,  if  you  ever  have  reason  to  doubt 
whether  you  were  wise  in  this  matter,  is  that  you  cer- 
tainly feel  no  such  call  at  present,  and  that  it  would 
have  been  wrong  of  you  to  bind  yourself.  I  think  that 
your  father  may  see  it,  too,  in  time.  But  I  wish — I 

W 


DISCUSSIONS  319 

can't  help  wishing — that  you  had  consulted  me  before — 
well,  before  you  quite  made  up  your  mind  that  you 
would  settle  down  at  Storbridge  as  a  country  book- 
seller." 

He  smiled  as  he  said  it,  but  Richard  felt  for  the 
first  time  that  the  calling  he  was  about  to  embrace  with 
such  ardour  was  not  of  the  most  exalted.  He  made  no 
reply,  and  the  Squire  went  on: — 

"  Please  do  not  think  of  me  as  despising  any  work 
which  a  man  may  see  fit  to  take  up,  if  it  is  clean  work 
and  work  that  he  can  interest  himself  in.  You  per- 
sonally would,  no  doubt,  find  any  work  having  to  do 
with  books  interesting — up  to  a  certain  point.  But  you 
know,  Dick,  there  are  ways  of  making  a  living  out  of 
books  other  than  selling  them,  and  I  had  rather  hoped 
that  you  might,  when  you  had  finished  your  education, 
have  found  out  one  of  those  ways.  It  has  seemed  to 
me  that  that  would,  perhaps,  be  the  natural  outcome 
of  your  circumstances." 

"You  mean  writing  books?" 

"  Yes.  I  only  say  perhaps,  because  I  think  that  a 
man  has  to  be  called,  as  your  father  would  say,  to  the 
writing  of  books,  in  much  the  same  way  as  he  must  be 
called  to  the  Church,  although  you  must  not  tell  him 
that  I  said  so.  And,  of  course,  the  call  can  hardly 
have  come  to  you  yet.  But  with  Oxford — with  some 
years  ahead  of  you — well,  I  can't  help  wishing  you  were 
going  to  Oxford." 

"  I  wanted  to,  very  much,"  replied  Richard.  "  But 
when  I  saw  that  my  only  chance  of  going  to  Oxford 
was  by  binding  myself  in  the  way  I  have  told  you,  I 
put  it  out  of  my  mind  altogether,  and  thought  about 
something  else.  I  hoped  you  would  think  I  was  right 
to  do  that," 


320  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

The  Squire  looked  at  him  rather  quizzically.  "  I 
expect,"  he  said,  "  that  if  you  had  the  chance  of 
going  to  Oxford  offered  to  you  now,  without  con- 
ditions, you  would  feel  some  disappointment  at 
having  to  give  up  the  other  scheme.  Don't  you  think 
so?" 

Richard  looked  rather  serious  for  a  moment.  "  It 
isn't  quite  like  that,"  he  said.  "  I  am  keen  to  start 
at  once,  and  I  look  forward  to  the  work  I  shall  have  to 
do.  But  if  I  had  the  opportunity  of  going  to  Oxford  I 
should  take  it." 

"  I  think  you  would  be  wise.  At  your  age,  when  the 
spirit  of  adventure  is  strong  and  energy  both  of  mind 
and  body  is  at  its  highest,  the  prospect  of  beginning 
your  life's  fight  with  the  world  is  invigorating,  and 
to  spend  four  or  five  years  longer  in  gaining  knowledge 
seems  an  unambitious  proceeding — except  for  the  born 
student,  and  you  are  not  that.  At  the  same  time,  at 
the  end  of  those  years,  you  would  be  better  equipped 
for  the  struggle,  and  you  would  have  gained  something 
that  you  would  never  have  another  opportunity  of 
gaining." 

Richard  was  silent. 

"  Of  course,"  pursued  the  Squire,  "  I  assume  that 
you  would  make  use  of  the  opportunities — that  you 
would  not  merely  stroll  through  a  University  course 
making  friends  and  generally  enjoying  yourself,  nor 
even  work  unintelligently  for  a  good  degree.  There  are 
young  men  to  whom  it  is  useful  just  to  live  for  three 
or  four  years  at  a  University.  Their  outlook  in  life 
is  widened,  and  they  make  friendships  of  a  sort  they 
might  otherwise  miss.  I  don't  think  you  are  one  of 
them.  And  as  for  University  honours,  there  are  very 
few  to  whom  they  can  be  of  much  value  in  themselves. 


DISCUSSIONS  321 

I  am  quite  sure  you  are  not  one  of  that  few.  No.  If 
you  went  to  Oxford,  you  would  have  to  go  with  the  idea 
of  gaining  knowledge  and  wisdom.  Do  you  think  you 
could  keep  that  end  in  view  among  all  the  attractions 
of  the  place?  It  might  be  difficult." 

"  I  don't  know.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  should  know 
how  to  set  about  it." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  you  would  either.  It  is  a  pity 
that  these  chances  should  be  given  almost  exclusively  to 
those  who  are  not  of  an  age  to  appreciate  them.  Still 
I  think  you  would  learn,  and  I  am  sure  that  you  would 
be  better  equipped  for  whatever  work  you  took  up  after- 
wards than  you  can  be  now.  We  are  friends,  Dick,  you 
and  I.  And  friends  ought  to  help  each  other.  I  want 
to  help  you  to  get  your  start  in  life.  I  offer  you  now 
what  your  father  does  not  feel  himself  able  to  give  you. 
I  have  thought  for  some  time  that  it  might  be  my  privi- 
lege to  do  so.  Put  aside  for  the  time  this  offer  of  your 
other  friend's  and  accept  mine.  Go  to  Oxford  and 
learn  as  much  as  you  can,  and  let  us  talk  afterwards  of 
what  you  shall  do  next." 

Richard  blushed  furiously.  "  It  is  very  good 
of  you,  indeed,  Mr.  Ventrey,"  he  stammered. 
"  But  I " 

"  It  will  be  a  great  pleasure  to  me,"  said  the  Squire. 
"  A  very  great  pleasure ;  you  may  believe  that.  But 
do  not  decide  now.  Go  and  think  it  over,  as  you 
thought  over  the  other  question,  and  come  and  see  me 
again  when  you  have  made  up  your  mind.  Don't  con- 
sult your  father.  We  can  do  that  after  you  have  come 
to  a  decision.  Think  it  out  for  yourself." 

So  Richard  went  away  with  another  problem  to 
face.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  he  was  as  well 
equipped  for  deciding  this  one  as  the  other.  There  was 


RICHARD  BALDOCK 

no  matter  of  principle  involved.  He  would  feel  no  false 
shame  in  accepting  the  bounty  of  his  friend,  and  he  was 
bound  to  nothing  except  to  make  the  best  possible  use 
of  the  opportunities  provided  for  him. 

He  thought  it  over  as  he  went  home.  He  was  loth 
to  give  up  the  prospect  of  immediate  occupation  and 
independence,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  the  prospect  of 
Oxford  appealed  to  him  strongly,  perhaps  more  strongly 
than  ever,  now  that  it  was  conjoined  with  freedom  of 
thought  and  action.  He  had  bent  his  mind  during  the 
past  week  to  looking  ahead  into  the  future,  and  did  so 
now  with  a  clearer  vision  than  boys  of  his  age  are  usu- 
ally capable  of  applying.  It  seemed  to  him  that  in  the 
circumstances  in  which  he  was  placed  the  University 
ought  to  lead  to  something  in  the  way  of  occupation 
afterwards.  He  would  have  to  make  a  living.  How 
would  Oxford  help  him?  He  went  over  in  his  mind  the 
careers  of  the  few  young  men  he  knew  who  had  been 
to  Oxford  or  Cambridge.  Two  or  three  were  in  the 
Church,  but  that  he  had  already  decided  against.  Some 
were  schoolmasters,  but  that  calling  presented  no  at- 
tractions to  him.  One  was  a  barrister  without  briefs, 
who  made  a  poor  living  out  of  journalism.  Another 
was  a  country  solicitor,  a  partner  in  a  family  firm. 
None  of  these  occupations  were  nearly  so  attractive  as 
that  which  Meaking  had  offered  him.  Mr.  Ventrey  had 
shown  what  he  had  in  his  mind  for  him.  He  was  to 
learn  as  much  as  he  could  at  the  University,  and  then 
he  was  to  write.  He  thought  over  this  suggestion  care- 
fully. He  loved  books,  but  he  had  never  had  the  slight- 
est wish  to  write  them.  What  sort  of  books  was  he  to 
write?  He  had  heard  a  good  deal  lately  about  being 
"  called  "  to  an  occupation  in  life.  He  felt  no  im- 
pulsion in  this  direction.  The  idea  of  it  was  even  a  little 


DISCUSSIONS  825 

disagreeable  to  him,  as  of  something  strange  and  diffi- 
cult. 

He  felt  suddenly  that  the  decision  was  beyond  his 
powers.  He  must  take  advice,  not  of  his  father,  al- 
though he  would  have  liked  to  talk  the  matter  over  with 
his  father ;  but  Mr.  Ventrey  had  asked  him  not  to.  He 
thought  he  would  like  to  talk  to  Mr.  Ventrey  again 
himself,  and  get  a  clearer  view  of  his  plans  for  him. 
And  Meaking,  to  whom  he  owed  something  for  the  gen- 
erosity of  his  offer — he  ought  to  have  Meaking's 
opinion.  And  Meaking  was  coming  over  to  Beechurst 
the  next  morning.  He  would  go  and  meet  him  and  hear 
his  views.  He  must  wait  on  events.  He  could  decide 
nothing  until  the  morrow. 

But  through  the  rest  of  the  evening  the  thought  of 
Oxford  returned  to  him  continually,  and  drew  him  with 
increasing  strength.  And  the  words  that  Mr.  Ventrey 
had  used,  "  a  country  bookseller,"  not  with  contempt 
but  with  kindly  criticism,  influenced  him,  perhaps,  more 
than  he  knew.  His  position  as  Meaking's  partner  and 
lifelong  companion  was  a  factor  in  the  case  which 
deserved  consideration,  although,  hitherto,  he  had  given 
it  none.  He  went  to  bed  with  his  mind  ill  at  ease,  quite 
unable  now  to  decide  what  he  really  wished  to  do. 

The  next  morning  he  rode  into  Storbridge,  leading 
a  second  pony.  Meaking  had  intended  to  walk  to 
Beechurst,  but  he  knew  that  he  would  rather  ride  at 
least  one  way.  As  he  trotted  and  walked  the  ponies 
along  the  summer  roads  between  the  forest  aisles  and 
out  amongst  the  water  meadows,  it  came  to  him  for  the 
first  time  that  his  boyhood  was  nearly  over,  that,  what- 
ever his  future  should  be,  it  would  take  him  into  busy 
scenes,  and  that  his  dealings  would  be  with  men  and  not 
with  the  things  of  nature  amongst  which  he  had  hitherto 


RICHARD  BALDOCK 

lived  his  life.  He  felt  the  strong  charm  of  the  forest 
and  the  open  country,  and  realized  with  a  touch  of  sad- 
ness that  the  years  in  which  it  could  provide  the  chief 
interest  of  life  were  coming  to  an  end  for  him.  "  After 
all,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  believe  I  should  be  happiest 
as  a  forester,  living  by  my  hands."  But  he  knew,  as 
he  said  it,  that  such  a  life  would  not  satisfy  him.  He 
had  passed  the  turning,  and  his  path  no  longer  led 
onward  through  the  forest  ways. 

He  met  Meaking  just  outside  Storbridge,  already 
on  the  road,  and  handed  over  his  mount.  When  the 
ponies'  heads  were  turned  towards  home  he  told  him  of 
the  new  complication  that  had  arisen. 

"  I'm  not  surprised,"  said  Meaking.  "  I  thought  it 
might  happen  in  that  way.  Mr.  Ventrey  thinks  a  deal 
of  you,  and  I  thought  that  probably  he  would  consider 
it  a  come-down  for  you  to  take  up  the  job  I've  offered 
you.  I  dare  say  he  said  as  much,  eh?" 

"  Well,  he  did  say  something  of  the  sort.  I  don't 
say  that  I  agree  with  him." 

"  You  probably  will,  though,  if  he  talks  to  you  much 
more  about  it."  Meaking  threw  a  searching  glance  at 
him.  "  Mind  you,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  deny  that  it  is  a 
come-down,  in  a  way.  You're  a  gentleman  born,  and 
you're  proposing  to  go  into  retail  trade.  That's  always 
considered  a  come-down,  though  why,  I  don't  know. 
Lots  of  gentlemen  would  do  very  well  at  it  who  haven't 
got  the  capacity  for  other  sorts  of  business.  And 
after  all  a  man  isn't  the  best  sort  of  gentleman  who 
depends  on  what  he  does  for  his  gentility,  instead  of 
what  he  is." 

"  Oh,  I  know  all  that,"  Richard  said,  a  little  impa- 
tiently. "  I  assure  you  that  that  side  of  the  question 
doesn't  trouble  me  much." 


DISCUSSIONS  325 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  it  won't,  though,  if  Mr.  Ventrey 
puts  himself  against  it.  There's  just  this  to  be  said 
about  it.  I  don't  propose  that  we  shall  remain  retail 
booksellers  all  our  lives,  or,  indeed,  very  much  longer. 
I've  got  bigger  schemes  in  my  head  than  that,  and  I 
think  in  a  few  years'  time  we  might  be  in  a  pretty  big 
way." 

"In  what  way?" 

"  I'm  not  quite  prepared  to  say  yet.  But  if  we  man- 
age to  fix  things  up  together,  we'll  go  into  it  thor- 
oughly together.  Lor',  what  times  we'll  have!  You're 
eighteen  now.  By  the  time  you're  twenty-two  or  three, 
just  when  you'd  have  finished  with  the  University,  and 
looking  about  for  something  to  start  on,  you'll  be  in  the 
thick  of  a  most  interesting  business,  and  probably  mak- 
ing a  lot  of  money."  Meaking's  red  face  glowed  with 
enthusiasm.  He  dug  his  heels  into  his  pony's  flanks, 
and  cantered  along  a  stretch  of  grass  by  the  roadside 
for  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  When  they  were  pacing  quietly 
along  the  road  together  again,  Richard  said: — 

"  Of  course,  I'm  very  grateful  to  you  for  all  you're 
offering  me.  I  know  it's  a  lot.  But  I  haven't  quite 
made  up  my  mind  to  accept  it  yet.  I  must  think  over 
Mr.  Ventrey's  offer  too.  It  is  a  very  generous  one,  and 
I  feel  it  would  be  a  serious  thing  to  give  up  the  chance 
of  going  to  Oxford,  unless  I  felt  quite  sure  in  my  own 
mind  that  it  would  be  better  not  to  take  it." 

"  I'm  quite  certain  that  you'd  better  not  take  it.  I 
know  you  better  than  Mr.  Ventrey  does.  You're  not 
of  the  stuff  they  make  real  scholars  of,  and  what  could 
the  University  do  for  you  if  it  wasn't  that?  You'd 
have  a  very  jolly  time  there.  I  know  that.  And  you'd 
make  a  lot  of  pleasant  frighds.  But  after  it  was  over 
where  would  you  be?  No  nearer  to  making  a  living 


326  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

than  you  are  now — and  four  or  five  years  older.  You 
wouldn't  be  so  near,  for  I  tell  you  I  shall  be  a  long  way 
ahead  then,  and  I  couldn't  give  you  the  opportunity 
then  that  I'm  willing  to  give  you  now.  What  should 
you  have  to  turn  to  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Ventrey  seems  to  think  I  ought  to  write." 

"  What  about?  If  you  had  it  in  you  to  be  a  success- 
ful author  you'd  have  been  nibbling  at  it  by  this  time. 
So  far  as  I  know  you've  never  set  pen  to  paper  unless 
you  were  obliged." 

"  That's  quite  true.  And  I  don't  know  that  I  want 
to.  But  how  can  I  tell  now  what  I  shall  want  to  do  in 
four  or  five  years'  time?  I  wish  to  goodness  I  had  some 
one  to  advise  me.  Really,  you  know,  it's  a  lot  for  me  to 
decide." 

"  You  mean  you're  too  young?  I  don't  think  so. 
You're  eighteen.  I'd  made  up  my  mind  about  things 
before  I  was  your  age,  and  now  I'm  on  the  road  to  suc- 
cess. And  I  haven't  had  your  advantages  of  educa- 
tion. I  don't  say  that  education  isn't  a  good  thing. 
I'm  not  such  a  fool,  though  I  haven't  had  much  of  it 
myself,  as  I  say.  But  when  you've  got  your  own  way 
to  make  you  simply  can't  afford  to  spend  four  or  five 
years  of  the  most  important  part  of  your  life  over  it. 
You  must  do  with  what  you've  got.  And,  after  all, 
you  can  go  on  educating  yourself  all  the  time,  and  you 
will,  if  you're  keen  on  it.  If  you're  not  you  wouldn't 
do  it  at  Oxford,  either.  You'll  just  slack  about  and 
amuse  yourself." 

"  It's  a  difficult  question,"  said  Richard  un- 
decidedly. 

"  Come  now,"  returned  Meaking.  "  Look  it  in  the 
face.  What  do  you  want  to  go  to  Oxford  for?  " 

"  Wouldn't  you  want  to  go  if  you  were  me,  and  had 


DISCUSSIONS 

the  chance  ?  You  know  quite  well  that  I've  been  looking 
forward  to  it  for  years,  and  always  thought  I  was  going 
as  a  matter  of  course  until  a  week  ago." 

"  Yes,  but  you've  had  your  eyes  opened  since  then. 
You're  more  of  a  man  than  you  were.  You've  been 
obliged  to  face  things,  and  you've  faced  them  well, 
and  come  out  of  it  well.  A  week  ago  you  were  a  school- 
boy. Of  course  you  looked  forward  with  pleasure  to 
going  to  Oxford  then.  Jolly  place  and  all  that — and 
rowing  and  larks  and  rows  and  independence,  and  I 
don't  know  what.  Now,  you're  a  man.  You've  had  to 
look  seriously  into  the  future  during  the  last  week  and 
you've  got  to  go  on  doing  so.  If  you  still  have  Oxford 
in  your  mind,  you've  got  to  decide  now  why  you  want 
to  go,  and  you've  got  to  see  that  the  reason  is  a  good 
one,  for  you'll  be  giving  up  something  for  it — and  giv- 
ing up  more  than  you  know,  too.  Come,  now,  be  honest 
with  yourself.  Why  do  you  want  to  go  to  Oxford — 
now,  after  all  that's  happened?  " 

Richard  laughed.  "  You  are  very  peremptory,"  he 
said. 

"  Stand  up  to  yourself,  and  don't  allow  any  non- 
sense; that's  one  of  my  mottoes,"  said  Meaking. 
"  Let's  have  the  answer,  Dick.  You  said  you  wanted 
advice.  Give  it  to  yourself." 

"Why  do  I  want  to  go  to  Oxford?"  said  Richard, 
good-humouredly.  "  Well,  I  suppose,  because — because 
— because  I  want  to  go  to  Oxford." 

"  There  you  have  it,"  exclaimed  Meaking,  trium- 
phantly. "  You  couldn't  have  given  a  better  answer. 
We'll  leave  it  at  that,  and,  when  you're  thinking  over 
the  question  by  yourself,  remember  that  that's  really 
all  the  reason  you've  got,  and  don't  try  and  persuade 
yourself  that  you've  got  a  better  one.  I  wish  they'd 


328  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

cut  down  these  seedling  firs.  They  are  choking  up  all 
the  open  spaces."' 

They  came  presently  to  Beechurst,  and  dismounted 
in  the  stable-yard  of  the  rectory,  where  Job  was  pother- 
ing about  with  a  bucket. 

"  Morning,  Job,"  said  Meaking,  cheerfully,  as  he 
took  off  his  cap,  and  mopped  his  forehead.  "  Pretty 
hot,  eh?  » 

"  Sun  ain't  in  yet,  seemin'ly,"  replied  that  retainer,  in 
obvious  allusion. 

"  You'd  give  a  good  deal  to  have  some  of  it,"  said 
Meaking.  "  You're  getting  as  bald  as  an  egg." 

Job  turned  on  him  angrily.  "  Look  here,  I  don't 
want  none  o'  your  sauce,  you  carroty  young  varmint. 
They  tell  me  you're  getting  a  big  man  over  to  Stor- 
bridge,  but  you're  nothing  but  dirt  here,  the  same  as 
you  always  was." 

"  That's  true,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Meaking  philosophi- 
cally, as  he  and  Richard  went  into  the  house.  "  What 
do  they  say? — a  prophet  hath  no  honour.  Well,  I  hope 
Mr.  Baldock  will  think  I'm  a  little  better  than  dirt." 

The  Vicar  with  whom  he  found  himself  closeted  a 
/ew  minutes  later,  if  he  did  not  show  that  he  regarded 
him  as  dirt,  hardly  treated  him  as  if  he  thought  him 
of  great  importance,  either  at  Storbridge  or  anywhere 
else.  He  seemed,  indeed,  to  have  forgotten  that  he 
was  to  be  consulted  on  a  matter  of  some  moment. 

"  I  hope  your  mother  is  well,"  he  said,  "  and  that 
you're  doing  well  at  your  work,  and  giving  satisfaction 
to  your  employer." 

"  Mother  is  well,  and  comfortably  situated,  thank 
you  sir,"  replied  Meaking.  "  And  as  for  my  employer, 
I'm  giving  him  every  satisfaction.  I'm  my  own  em- 
ployer, now." 


DISCUSSIONS 

"  Oh,"  said  John  Baldock,  a  little  taken  aback  by  this 
directness  of  speech. 

"  I've  come  to  talk  to  you,  sir,  about  Richard," 
began  Meaking,  determined  to  waste  no  time  in  coming 
to  the  point.  "  He  wants  work,  and  I'm  in  a  position  to 
offer  it  to  him,  and  good  terms  with  it." 

The  Vicar  swallowed  an  apparently  painful  reflec- 
tion. 

"  He  did  say  something  to  me  about  it,  now  that  I 
remember,"  he  replied.  "  He  has  seen  fit  to  object  to 
the  plans  that  I  have  made  for  his  future,  and  I  cannot 
pretend  that  I  am  pleased  with  him  just  now." 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Meaking,  "  but  of  course  you  don't 
want  to  discuss  that  with  me.  I  know  that  he  doesn't 
see  his  way  to  fall  in  with  your  wishes,  and  I  won't  pry 
into  the  reasons,  which  don't  concern  me." 

"Naturally,"  replied  John  Baldock,  stiffly;  "I 
shouldn't  wish  to  go  into  these  matters  with  you." 

"  Quite  so,  sir.  The  thing  is  settled ;  and  as  he  has 
got  to  make  up  his  mind  now,  from  what  he  tells  me, 
to  take  up  some  other  means  of  livelihood,  I  thought  I'd 
bring  forward  my  proposal,  which  I  don't  think  you'd 
better." 

"What  is  your  proposal?" 

"  I  want  Richard  as  my  partner — half  and  half 
share — in  a  good  and  growing  business,  and  I'm  will- 
ing to  take  him  in  with  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
to  be  used  in  the  business." 

"  That  is  what  he  told  me.  I  thought  he  must  be 
making  some  mistake.  I  have  very  little  acquaintance 
with  business  men  or  business  habits,  but  I  cannot  think 
that  anybody  would  be  willing  to  offer  such  terms  to  a 
mere  schoolboy,  if  the  business  was  really  prosperous 
and  satisfactory." 


330  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  The  prosperity  of  the  business,  sir,  is  a  matter  of 
facts  and  figures,  which  can  be  seen  from  the  books,  by 
you  or  any  one  you  like  to  appoint  to  look  into  them. 
There  isn't  a  business  man  in  the  country  who 
wouldn't  tell  you  that  the  offer  is  an  exceptionally 
good  one." 

"You  are  in  Mr.  Gannett's  business,  are  you  not? 
What  is  to  become  of  Mr.  Gannett?  Has  he  been  con- 
sulted in  this  matter?  " 

"  As  I  told  Richard,  sir,  I  think  I  could  make  ar- 
rangements to  buy  him  out.  I'm  pretty  sure  I  could, 
or  I  should  wait  before  I  made  the  proposition." 

"  Buy  him  out  ?  Then,  that's  what  you  want  money 
for." 

Meaking  allowed  himself  a  gentle  laugh.  "  A  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds  wouldn't  buy  him  out,  sir,"  he 
said.  "  We  shouldn't  pay  him  hard  cash.  We  should 
give  him  a  certain  portion  of  the  profits." 

"  And  you,  a  young  man  of — what?  twenty-one,  and 
Richard,  a  boy  of  eighteen,  would  expect  to  carry  on 
the  business  successfully  without  the  advantage  of  his 
long  experience.  That  doesn't  seem  to  me  a  scheme 
that  shows  great  possibilities  of  success." 

"  I  don't  expect  you,  sir,  to  give  me  the  credit  that 
belongs  to  me  for  my  business  capabilities,  knowing 
me  chiefly  as  a  mischievous  young  scamp  about  the  vil- 
lage; but  the  books  will  show  to  any  one  who  knows 
how  to  read  them  that  Mr.  Gannett's  long  experience 
only  enabled  him  to  make  a  bare  living  out  of  the  busi- 
ness, and  that  since  I've  had  to  do  with  it,  and  espe- 
cially since  I've  been  a  partner,  it  has  not  only  kept 
Mr.  Gannett  very  well,  but  me  and  mother  too,  though 
I  only  get  a  quarter  share.  And  it's  got  to  the  point 
jphere  it  can  be  greatly  extended  if  a  little  fresh  capital 


DISCUSSIONS  331 

is  put  in.  And  as  for  Mr.  Gannett,  I  should  hope  he'd 
still  work  at  his  branch  of  it  as  long  as  he  lived." 

The  Vicar  was  somewhat  impressed,  though  against 
his  will,  by  the  young  man's  confidence.  "  I  should 
like  to  know,  then,"  he  said,  "  why  you  are  making  this 
exceptionally  good  offer  to  Richard." 

"  Because  I  want  a  partner,  and  he's  the  partner  I 
want.  I  know  I  could  get  one  who'd  put  in  a  deal  more 
money  than  I'm  asking  of  him — and  I'm  putting  that 
as  low  as  I  reasonably  can.  But  I  might  not  be  able 
to  work  comfortably  with  him.  I  shouldn't  know  him  as 
I  do  Richard.  I'm  quite  sure  he'll  be  worth  the  present 
sacrifice  to  me  in  the  long  run — else  I  shouldn't  want 
him.  It's  a  business  proposal  as  far  as  I'm  concerned, 
though  it  doesn't  look  like  it." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  he  has  the  capabilities  you 
require?  " 

"  Because  I'm  a  judge  of  character,  sir,  hoping  you'll 
pardon  the  seeming  boastfulness.  He's  fond  of  books ; 
it  comes  natural  to  him  to  pick  up  a  lot  about  them, 
where  other  people  wouldn't  gather  anything.  And  he's 
a  good  worker,  and  cheerful  and  friendly  with  it  all ;  and 
generally  liked.  And  he's  enterprising — at  least,  he  will 
bo  when  he  gets  to  work  on  something  he's  cut  out  for. 
Those  are  the  qualities  I  want  in  my  partner,  and  I'm 
willing  to  pay  high  for  them." 

"  It  seems  that  we  are  expected  to  do  the  paying." 

"  You  can  put  it  in  that  way  if  you  like,  sir.  But 
you  can  hardly  expect  to  get  what  I'm  offering  for 
nothing.  And  you  wouldn't  be  paying  me  anything 
either.  The  money  would  go  into  the  business  and  he'd 
benefit  by  it  as  much  as  I  should.  With  the  develop- 
ments I  have  in  my  mind,  we  should  have  to  keep  as 
much  of  our  profits  in  the  business  as  possible,  and,  of 


RICHArtD  BALDOCK 

course,  Mr.  Gannett  would  take  a  large  share  of  them ; 
but  I  should  take  out  a  hundred  a  year  for  the  present 
for  my  own  use  and  Richard  could  do  the  same,  or  he 
could  leave  some  of  it  in  to  bear  interest.  That's  not 
a  bad  return  on  a  hundred  and  fifty  capital ;  and  of 
course  there  would  be  much  more  in  the  future." 

It  seemed  to  John  Baldock  an  extraordinarily  good 
return,  and  the  idea  of  it  rather  took  his  breath  away. 
But  he  recovered  himself  quickly.  "  I  dton't  know 
whether  you  have  the  power  to  carry  out  your  inten- 
tions or  not,"  he  said.  "  I  am  not  capable  of  judging. 
Probably  you  are  far  too  sanguine.  But  it  would  be 
quite  useless  to  discuss  it  further,  for  there  is  no  pos- 
sibility of  my  being  able  to  provide  the  sum  you  men- 
tion. Richard  has  seventy  pounds  of  his  own,  and  that 
I  should  be  willing  to  allow  him  to  use  for  the  purpose, 
if  a  thorough  investigation  by  a  competent  third  party 
showed  it  to  be  advisable.  More  than  that  I  could 
not  do." 

Meaking's  face  had  flushed  a  little  during  the  last 
speech.  "  As  I  told  you,  sir,"  he  said,  "  I  have  no  ob- 
jection to  everything  being  examined  by  any  one  you 
like  to  appoint.  In  the  meantime  it  will  save  irritation 
if  you'll  kindly  take  it  that  I  am  making  a  bona  fide 
offer  which  will  be  at  least  as  much  to  the  advantage  of 
your  side  as  to  mine." 

The  Vicar  looked  at  him  closely.  The  last  occasion 
on  which  he  had  held  any  dealings  with  this  self-reliant 
and  apparently  capable  young  man  was  when  he  had 
summoned  him  to  his  presence  and  rebuked  him  sternly 
for  the  sin  of  cracking  nuts  in  church.  It  was  he  who 
was  now  being  rebuked,  and  he  did  not  quite  like  it. 

"  I  shall  certainly  reserve  my  independence  of  judg- 
ment on  the  subject,"  he  said,  stiffly.  "  The  factor  in 


DISCUSSIONS  333 

the  situation  that  I  can  understand  is  that  you  want 
a  considerable  sum  of  money,  and " 

"  I  want  Richard  as  a  partner,  sir,"  interrupted 
Meaking,  hotly.  "  And  I'm  offering  to  take  him  in  on 
very  generous  terms.  I  won't  have  my  offer  thrown  in. 
my  face  as  if  I  had  come  here  to  try  for  something  for 
myself." 

The  disagreeable  side  of  John  Baldock's  character, 
always  pushing  to  assert  itself,  was  aroused  by  his  tone. 
"  That  is  not  the  way  for  you  to  address  me,"  he  said 
arrogantly.  "  I  would  have  you  remember  our  re- 
spective positions." 

Meaking  gave  a  short  laugh.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I 
suppose  I'm  still  dirt  here  in  Beechurst,  whatever  I've 
made  myself  elsewhere.  I've  been  told  so.  Well,  there's 
my  offer,  Mr.  Baldock,  and  I  think  you  would  be  wise 
to  think  it  over.  And  any  one  you  like  to  appoint  to 
look  into  the  business  will  have  every  assistance  I  can 
give  him.  I  won't  keep  you  any  longer  now." 

He  rose  to  go.  The  Vicar  did  not  offer  to  shake 
hands  with  him.  "  I  think  you  may  consider  the  matter 
closed,"  he  said.  "  I  should  not  care  for  my  son  to  go 
into  partnership  with  you."  Then  he  returned  to  his 
books  with  an  unpleasant  expression  on  his  face,  and 
Meaking  left  him. 


CHAPTER    XXV 

TWO  SIDES  OF  A  QUESTION 

RICHARD  hung  about  the  house  while  the  interview  just 
described  was  in  progress.  When  Meaking  went  out  he 
was  in  the  garden  and  missed  him.  After  half  an  hour 
he  ventured  near  the  window  of  his  father's  study,  and 
saw  his  head  bent  over  the  table,  and  realized  that  he 
was  alone.  He  made  inquiries  in  the  house  and  found, 
somewhat  to  his  surprise,  that  Meaking  had  gone  with- 
out trying  to  find  him  to  relate  what  had  happened.  He 
dared  not  go  in  to  his  father;  and,  indeed,  Mr.  Ven- 
trey's  request  that  he  would  not  discuss  with  him  the 
question  that  was  exercising  his  mind  made  him  rather 
shy  of  discussing  any  question.  He  felt  the  request  to 
be  irksome,  and  suddenly  made  up  his  mind,  when  he 
discovered  that  there  was  no  hope  of  his  seeing  Meaking 
again  just  then,  to  go  to  the  Squire  and  ask  him  to 
withdraw  it.  To  his  surprise,  when  he  reached  the  Hall 
he  learnt  that  Meaking  himself  was  in  the  library  with 
Mr.  Ventrey,  but  when  his  name  was  taken  in  he  was 
asked  to  join  them. 

"  Well,  Dick,"  said  the  Squire,  when  he  went  in.  "  It 
is  you  and  your  future  we  are  discussing.  You  may  as 
well  take  part  in  our  conclave,  as  you  are  most  con- 
cerned. Mr.  Meaking  is  kind  enough  to  be  giving  me  his 
views  as  to  the  proper  career  for  you  to  take  up." 

Meaking  looked  rather  ill  at  ease,  sitting  in  a  high 
oak  chair  opposite  to  his  host  who  was  ensconced  in  a 
low  easy  one.  He  sat  well  forward,  holding  his  hat 

334 


TWO  SIDES  OF  A  QUESTION  335 

between  his  knees  and  twirling  it  nervously  by  the  brim. 
Obviously,  he  was  finding  it  more  difficult  to  hold  his 
own  in  a  conversation  with  the  Squire  than  with  the 
Vicar. 

"  I  was  waiting  for  you,"  said  Richard.  "  Why 
didn't  you  let  me  know  you  had  finished  talking  to 
father?" 

"  I  was  rather  upset,"  replied  Meaking.  "  He  didn't 
treat  me  quite  as  I  like  to  be  treated.  I  went  straight 
out  and  was  opposite  the  Hall  before  I  thought  about 
you.  Then  I  thought  I  would  come  and  ask  Mr.  Ven- 
trey  if  he  would  kindly  let  me  speak  to  him  about  it." 

"  We  are  in  the  middle  of  thrashing  the  matter  out," 
put  in  the  Squire.  "  Mr.  Meaking  is  anxious  that 
you  should  become  a  bookseller,  and  is  prepared  to 
do  all  in  his  power  to  make  you  a  successful  one.  But 
he  has  learnt  that  I  am  in  the  way  with  my  proposal 
that  you  shall  first  of  all  finish  your  education ;  and 
when  you  came  in.  he  was  advancing  reasons  why  I 
should — well,  I  can't  express  it  better  than  by  saying, 
get  out  of  the  way." 

It  was  said  in  the  most  easy  agreeable  manner,  but 
there  was  a  look  on  the  smiling  face  of  the  speaker  that 
gave  more  point  to  the  sarcasm  of  the  speech  than  to 
its  pleasant  tone.  Mr.  Ventrey  meant  to  fight,  and  it 
was  plain  that  Meaking  was  finding  him  a  formidable 
adversary. 

But  Meaking  did  not  lack  courage  and  was  pre- 
pared to  fight  too,  to  meet  delicate  rapier  play  by 
broadsword  strokes,  and  to  acknowledge  as  little  as  pos- 
sible his  opponent's  advantage  of  position. 

"  In  the  ordinary  way,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  candid 
honesty,  "  I  shouldn't  put  my  opinions  against  yours, 
sir,.  You're  a  gentleman  high  above  me,  with  knowl- 


336  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

edge  and  experience  I  can't  lay  claim  to.  But  I've 
thought  over  this  and  I'd  like  to  tell  you  how  it  strikes 
me." 

This  appeal  would  not  have  failed  in  the  usual  course 
to  draw  a  generous  acknowledgment  from  the  Squire, 
and  Richard  was  rather  surprised  to  hear  him  reply,  in 
an  unmoved  voice,  "  I  think  the  ordinary  way  ought  to 
be  your  way  now,  Mr.  Meaking.  I  can  quite  confi- 
dently accept  your  tribute.  My  knowledge  and  experi- 
ence of  the  world  must  be  and  actually  is  far  greater 
than  yours,  and  it  leads  me  to  a  different  conclusion 
from  the  one  you  have  come  to.  You  have  told  me  how 
it  strikes  you,  and  my  conviction  is  still  unshaken." 

"  I've  only  begun  to  tell  you,  sir,"  replied  Meaking, 
doggedly.  "  It's  only  fair  that  you  should  hear  what 
it  is  I'm  offering,  and  what  he'd  be  giving  up  if  he 
accepts  your  offer  instead,  before  you  turn  me  out." 

"  I  have  not  the  slightest  wish  to  turn  you  out,  Mr. 
Meaking,"  said  the  Squire,  always  speaking  with  great 
courtesy.  "  And  if  you  have  not  already  told  me  what 
your  offer  is,  I  should  like  to  hear  it." 

Meaking,  driven  by  nervousness,  plunged  hurriedly 
into  a  diffuse  statement  of  the  success  that  might  be 
expected  to  attend  an  enterprising  extension  of  his  pres- 
ent business.  He  made  none  of  the  paths  by  which  it 
was  to  come  very  clear,  and  to  an  unprejudiced  listener 
would  have  been  thought  to  be  depicting  a  state  of 
affairs  existing  solely  in  his  own  sanguine  imagination 
and  unlikely  to  come  into  actual  being.  Mr.  Ventrey 
heard  him  politely  to  the  end,  kept  his  eye  fixed  upon 
him,  and  gave  him  no  assistance  as  parentheses  and 
afterthoughts  fell  from  his  lips, .confusing  instead  of 
enlightening  his  meaning.  Richard  felt  anxiously  dis- 
appointed as  he  heard  his  friend  muddling  away  the 


TWO  SIDES  OF  A  QUESTION  S3"! 

effect  of  his  statement  and  quite  failing  to  make  the 
impression  he  desired.  He  had  the  inclination  to  strike 
in  and  help  him,  and  made  a  motion  as  if  to  do  so  once, 
but  Mr.  Ventrey  held  up  his  hand,  and  Meaking  finished 
his  exposition,  tailing  off  to  an  ineffective  ending  and 
taking  out  his  handkerchief  to  wipe  the  perspiration 
from  his  forehead  when  his  ordeal  was  at  last  over. 

The  Squire  turned  calmly  towards  Richard.  "  Well, 
Dick,"  he  said,  "  it  is  for  you  to  decide.  You  have 
heard  what  Mr.  Meaking  hopes  to  be  able  to  do  for  you 
if  you  join  him  in  his  business.  Will  you  do  so,  or  will 
you  go  to  Oxford  ?  " 

Richard  felt  supremely  uncomfortable.  He  blushed 
a  deep  red,  and  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair.  Then  he 
blurted  out,  "  I  think  you  ought  to  give  him  a  chance, 
Mr.  Ventrey." 

For  the  first  time  since  he  had  known  him  Richard 
saw  his  friend's  face  change  its  almost  invariable  ex- 
pression of  courteous  self-possession  to  one  of  angry 
annoyance. 

"  Kindly  tell  me  what  you  mean,"  he  said,  sharply. 

Richard  cleared  his  throat  and,  with  his  eyes  cast 
down,  said,  "  He  told  you  that  in  the  ordinary  way  he 
would  think  it  cheek  of  him  to  put  his  opinion  against 
yours.  But  he  has  thought  a  lot  about  this,  and  wants 
to  tell  you  what  his  opinion  is,  and  you  don't  help  him." 

"  I  wanted  to  put  it  to  you,  sir,"  added  Meaking, 
"  and  see  if  you  didn't  agree  with  me." 

Mr.  Ventrey  had  recovered  himself.  He  smiled. 
"  Well,  I  don't  agree  with  you,"  he  said.  "  But  come 
now,  let  us  take  for  granted  for  the  moment  what  you 
have  by  no  means  convinced  me  of,  that  your  offer 
provides  a  great  opportunity  for  a  prosperous  career 
for  our  friend.  Let  us  take  that  for  granted,  I  say; 


338  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

and  now  tell  me  as  plainly  as  you  can  why  you  think 
Dick  ought  to  embrace  it  now  at  once  and  give  up  the 
great  advantages  of  education  which  he  cannot  possibly 
have  offered  to  him  later  on.  I  will  give  full  considera- 
tion to  your  views.  It  is  no  less  than  what  opponents 
in  argument  ought  to  do." 

The  tension — it  is  difficult  to  say  how,  for  the  Squire 
still  kept  his  gaze  fixed  upon  the  speaker — was  removed, 
and  Meaking  took  heart  and  began  again. 

"  He  ought  to  come  in  now,"  he  said,  "  because  if  he 
waits  for  four  or  five  years,  although  I'd  still  take  him, 
I  couldn't  offer  anything  like  the  same  terms  as  I  can 
to-day." 

"  That  supposes  you  will  have  the  complete  success 
you  anticipate,"  said  the  Squire.  "  But  the  point  is 
one  that  we  are  taking  for  granted.  What  I  under- 
stand is  that  you  feel  he  would  be  wrong  to  go  to  the 
University  in  any  case,  and  I  want  to  know  why." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  can't  put  it  as  plain  as  I  could  wish, 
and  of  course  I  don't  know  much  about  Oxford,  but 
I  think  I  know  enough  to  say  that,  as  he's  got  to  earn 
his  living  whether  he  goes  there  or  not,  he  can't  afford 
to  waste  four  or  five  years  before  he  begins  to  do  it." 

"  You  really  look  upon  a  university  education  as 
pure  waste  of  time,  Mr.  Meaking?" 

"  No,  sir,  that  isn't  my  meaning.  If  a  young  man 
has  got  his  future  all  laid  out  for  him,  and  needn't 
worry  about  ways  and  means,  let  him  take  all  the  educa- 
tion he  can  and  go  on  as  long  as  he  likes,  and  be  thank- 
ful for  the  chance.  If  he's  not  so  situated — and  you 
can't  say  that  Baldock  is — then  I  look  upon  it  as  waste 
of  time.  You  may  waste  time  over  a  good  thing  as 
well  as  a  bad.  Sleep's  a  good  thing  when  you're  work- 
ing hard ;  but  there  may  come  a  time  when  you  have  to 


339V 

work  so  hard  for  a  spell  that  you've  got  to  knock  off 
some  of  your  times  of  sleep;  you'd  be  wasting  time  if 
you  didn't." 

"  That  is  a  good  illustration,  and  you  have  made 
your  point  clear,  but  you  have  forgotten  that  the  Uni- 
versity, besides  being  a  place  of  pure  education,  and 
offering  advantages  that  perhaps  you  are  right  in  say- 
ing only  those  who  have  no  anxieties  as  to  their  future 
are  capable  of  enjoying,  is  very  largely,  and  perhaps 
chiefly,  used  as  an  actual  stepping-stone  to  future  em- 
ployment, generally  of  a  higher  kind,  although  pos- 
sibly not  more  lucrative,  than  could  be  taken  up  by 
those  unable  to  use  it." 

"  What  kind  of  employment,  sir?  " 

"  I  expect  you  know  as  well  as  I  do.  All  the  learned 
professions  and  the  higher  posts  in  the  Government 
service,  as  well  as  numerous  other  occupations  which 
can  only  be  filled  by  men  whose  brains  have  been  exer- 
cised by  the  best  education.  The  fact  is,  Mr.  Meaking 
— and  I  hope  you  will  forgive  my  emphasizing  it — that 
you  are  intensely  interested  in  the  money-making  side 
of  life." 

"  I  don't  think  money-making  is  everything,  sir," 
interrupted  Meaking. 

"  I  do  not  accuse  you  of  doing  so.  You  have  had 
success  in  a  business  which  exercises  the  brain  in  a  more 
humane  way  than  most,  and  I  have  not  the  slightest 
doubt  that  you  value  that  factor  in  it;  but  you  do 
not  value  it  nearly  so  much  as  the  larger  factor  of 
money-making,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir.     I  am  not  sure  that  I  don't." 

"  I  am  quite  sure.  Your  good  partner,  Mr.  Gan- 
nett, undoubtedly  does,  but  you  pride  yourself  on  being 
a  far  better  business  man  than  he  is." 


340  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  Nobody  could  say  that  I  wasn't." 

"  On  the  money-making  side,  certainly  not.  In  every 
other  respect  you  are  far  inferior  to  him,  and  you 
would  show  great  partiality  of  mind  if  you  were  to 
deny  it.  From  what  Richard  has  told  me  of  you,  I  am 
assured  that  you  have  used  your  opportunities  well, 
and  are  justified  in  being  proud  of  your  present  situa- 
tion and  satisfied  with  the  way  you  are  conducting  your 
life.  But  you  will  forgive  me  again  for  saying  that  the 
career  that  would  satisfy  you  ought  not  to  satisfy  one 
of  already  superior  education,  and  in  some  respects  of 
superior  powers.  You  see  I  speak  quite  plainly.  At 
the  best  you  are  offering  my  friend  the  chance  of 
becoming  a  rich  man  by  means  of  a  pleasant,  and,  as 
far  as  it  goes,  a  worthy  occupation.  I  want  to  give 
him  the  chance  of  becoming  something  better  than  a 
rich  man;  and  the  way  I  propose  to  do  it  is  by  giving 
him  the  education  which  will  fit  him  to  take  oppor- 
tunities when  they  come  and  make  the  best  of  them. 
If  I  may  use  myself  as  a  poor  example,  I  am  not  alto- 
gether unknown  in  the  world,  but  I  am  not  known  by 
the  amount  of  wealth  I  enjoy — should,  indeed,  be  bet- 
ter known  if  that  wealth  did  not  encourage  me  to  live 
a  more  idle  contemplative  life  than  I  should  want  if 
I  were  without  it." 

The  point  of  view,  perhaps,  was  rather  beyond  Mea- 
king's  mental  horizon.  He  realized  it  dimly  as  a  not 
unreasonable  one,  but  the  intensely  practical  side  of  his 
mind  clung  to  actualities. 

"  Education's  a  good  thing,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  deny 
it.  And  of  course  it  helps  you  to  become  great  if 
you've  got  it  in  you  to  become  great.  But  I  don't  be- 
lieve Dick  Baldock  has,  and  he  knows  I  think  so.  If 
he  has,  he'll  be  great  anyhow.  I  believe  what  I'm  offer- 


TWO  SIDES  OF  A  QUESTION  541 

ing  him  will  just  suit  him.  Perhaps  you're  right,  sir, 
about  the  money-making.  But  that  will  be  my  part  of 
the  business.  His  will  be  the  other  side.  It's  what  he's 
fitted  for  by  nature,  and  I  believe  he'll  be  thoroughly 
happy  in  it." 

"  He  would  be  better  fited  for  it,  as  well  as  for  any- 
thing else,  if  he  spent  the  next  few  years  in  educating 
himself  all  around,"  said  the  Squire.  "  And  he  is  too 
young — in  mind,  if  not  in  years — to  bind  himself  down 
to  his  life-work.  He  may  change;  he  is  bound  to  de- 
velop. I  want  to  see  him  a  man  armed  all  round  for  his 
conflict  with  life.  I  shall  not  mind  in  ten  years'  time — 
nobody  whose  opinion  is  worth  having  will  mind — 
whether  he  is  rich  or  not.  I  shall  mind  if  he  is  narrow 
and  obscure.  Come,  Dick,  my  friend,  it  is  for  you  to 
decide." 

"  Wait  a  minute,  sir,"  put  in  Meaking,  hurriedly. 
"  Let  me  speak  plainly,  and  no  offence  meant  or  taken. 
Look  at  the  practical  side.  He  must  make  a  living. 
If  you  send  him  to  Oxford,  you  ought  to  go  further. 
You  ought  to  see  him  started  afterwards.  Perhaps  it 
won't  matter  in  ten  years'  time  if  he's  rich  or  not,  but 
it  will  matter  if  he's  not  making  enough  to  get  married 
on.  That's  the  chief  thing  in  life,  after  all — to  have 
a  home  of  your  own,  and  someone  to  share  it  with  you. 
I  feel  that,  though  I'm  young  yet,  and  with  no  plans 
of  the  sort  in  my  head.  Give  him  the  chance  of  that, 
and  I'll  stand  aside  and  say  no  more  to  influence  him." 

"  I  do  give  him  that  chance,"  replied  the  Squire. 
"  I  meant  nothing  else.  When  he  has  gone  through 
what  I  look  upon  as  his  time  of  probation,  I  will  start 
him  on  the  road.  And  if  the  road  leads  in  the  direction 
you  have  made  up  your  mind  it  should  lead,  Mr.  Mea- 
king, that  is  the  road  I  will  start  him  on.  He  shall  lose 


342  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

no  advantage  by  my  interference,  I  can  assure  you,  and 
I  promise  him,  by  my  long  experience  of  life,  that  he 
shall  gain  immeasurably." 

Meaking  rose  from  his  seat.  "  Then  I've  nothing 
more  to  say,"  he  said.  "  Except  that  I'm  bitterly  dis- 
appointed for  my  own  sake,  and  very  doubtful  for  his. 
Good-evening,  sir,  and  thank  you  for  your  kind  atten- 
tion." With  which  he  walked  out  of  the  room  and  out 
of  the  house  and  along  the  dusty  six-mile  road  to  Stor- 
bridge,  a  prey  to  acute  depression. 

Richard  started  up,  as  he  passed  him  on  his  way 
down  the  long  room,  but  made  no  effort  to  detain  him. 
He  stood  irresolutely  as  the  door  closed.  "  He  is  a 
good  fellow,"  he  cried,  not  without  distress  in  his  voice. 
"Don't  you  see  it,  Mr.  Ventrey?" 

"  I  do  see  it,"  said  the  Squire.  "  He  is  the  best  of 
fellows,  with  a  heart  of  gold,  a  most  amazing  industry 
and  enterprise,  and  quite  a  gift  of  sound,  if  limited, 
philosophy.  But  he  is  not  of  the  clay,  my  dear  Dick, 
that  you  should  be  advised  to  ally  yourself  with  for 
life.  Not  unless  you  have  failed  amongst  men  of  a 
higher  order  of  intelligence.  And  my  hope  is  that  you 
will  gratify  an  old  man  by  taking  his  advice  and  will 
set  yourself  from  now  to  spend  the  next  few  years  of 
your  fortunate  youth  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge — 
not,"  he  added  with  a  pleasant  smile,  "  under  altogether 
disagreeable  surroundings." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Ventrey,  you  are  good,"  said  Richard,  with 
emotion.  "  I  can't  do  more  than  thank  you,  and  do  my 
best." 

"  Then  that  is  settled,"  said  the  Squire,  with  satis- 
faction, "  and  I  must  have  an  interview  with  your 
father  as  soon  as  possible." 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

THE  THIRD  SIDE 

MR.  VENTREY,  having  once  gained  Richard's  assent  to 
his  project,  lost  no  time  in  its  further  pursuance.  He 
sent  a  message  to  the  Vicar  early  in  the  afternoon,  to 
ask  him  to  pay  him  a  visit,  and  when  he  arrived  fired 
his  whole  broadside  into  him. 

"  I  asked  you  to  come  to  see  me,  Mr.  Baldock,"  he 
said,  "  because  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  your  son. 
As  you  know,  I  have  a  great  affection  for  him,  as  well 
as  a  great  respect  for  his  character  and  abilities.  A 
man  of  my  age  may  well  have  the  privilege  of  doing 
something  to  help  on  his  younger  friends,  and  I  want 
you  to  allow  me  to  be  responsible  for  Richard's  fur- 
ther education  and  for  his  start  in  life." 

John  Baldock  was  completely  at  a  loss.  Among  his 
faults  could  not  be  counted  that  of  subservient  watch- 
fulness of  riches,  and  it  had  never  entered  his  mind 
that  either  he  or  his  son  might  benefit  in  a  pecuniary 
way  from  the  Squire's  wealth  and  generosity. 

"  I — I  suppose  I  ought  to  express  my  gratitude,  Mr. 
Ventrey,"  he  stammered,  after  a  short  silence ;  "  but, 
really  the  idea  is  so  new  to  me,  that " 

"  There  is  no  occasion  for  gratitude,"  pursued  the 
Squire.  "  It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  be  able  to  do 
this  for  the  boy.  And  I  do  not  wish  to  put  you  per- 
sonally under  any  obligation  to  me.  I  think  that  Rich- 
ard cannot  do  better  than  continue  at  Storbridge  Gram- 
mar School  for  another  year,  and  I  suppose  that  you 

343 


344  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

will  see  to  that.  But  afterwards  I  should  like  to  take 
the  responsibility  on  my  shoulders.  I  will  see  that  he 
has  everything  that  he  can  want  at  Oxford,  and  prob- 
ably, when  he  has  finished  with  the  University,  there 
will  be  a  year  or  two  of  preparation  for  whatever  pur- 
suit he  takes  up  before  he  can  expect  to  be  earning 
his  own  living.  That  time  also  I  will  make  myself  re- 
sponsible for." 

John  Baldock  had  been  collecting  his  thoughts  dur- 
ing the  progress  of  the  foregoing  speech.  Now  he 
spoke  with  less  hesitation. 

"  The  offer,"  he  said,  "  is,  of  course,  a  munificent 
one.  An J I  thank  you,  Mr.  Ventrey,  sincerely,  and  once 
for  all,  for  its  intention.  But  I  must  have  time  to  think 
it  over.  It  implies  obligations  on  my  side  that  I  cannot 
disassociate  myself  from.  By  taking  upon  yourself  the 
cost  of  Richard's  further  education  you  would,  I  sup- 
pose, expect  to  have  the  leading  voice  in  settling  his 
life-work.  And  I  cannot  close  my  eyes  to  the  fact  that 
your  ideas  on  that  subject  would  be  widely  different 
from  mine." 

"  You  put  the  case  clearly,  Mr.  Baldock.  But  I  have 
no  axe  of  my  own  to  grind.  What  I  should  do  would 
be  to  watch  the  development  of  the  boy's  tastes  and 
aptitudes  closely,  and  advise  him  to  the  best  of  my 
ability  towards  a  career.  But  I  take  it  that  you  would 
be  in  the  same  position,  and  that  your  advice  would 
carry  as  much  weight  as  mine." 

"  I  fear  not.  In  fact,  I  think  your  advice  on  this 
very  subject  has  already  outweighed  mine.  For  the 
past  five  years,  ever  since  he  was  of  an  age  at  which 
the  subject  could  be  fitly  considered,  I  have  had  only 
one  career  in  my  mind  for  Richard:  by  far  the  high- 
est career  which  any  one  can  follow — the  ministry  of 


THE  THIRD  SIDE  545 

the  Gospel.  I  had  no  reason  to  suppose  that  he  him- 
self looked  upon  this  holy  work  in  anything  but  the 
right  spirit.  But  he  has  definitely  refused  now  to  con- 
sider it.  I  would  not  press  him  to  it  against  his  will, 
and  I  have  now  put  the  idea  out  of  my  mind  entirely, 
as  I  can  see  that  his  determination  is  strongly  set 
against  it.  This  change  in  him  I  can  only  put  down  to 
your  influence.  It  has  long  been  in  my  mind  to  say  this, 
and  I  say  it  now  without  fear." 

"  There  is  no  occasion  for  fear,  Mr.  Baldock.  I  can 
respect  a  man  who  speaks  out  plainly  what  is  in  his 
mind.  I  hope  that  you  have  the  same  power,  for  I  will 
speak  just  as  plainly.  It  is  only  through  the  glasses 
of  prejudice  that  you  can  have  regarded  your  boy  as 
marked  out  for  a  teacher  of  your  own  religion,  for  I 
do  not  imagine  that  you  ever  had  in  mind  the  possibility 
of  his  following  any  variant  of  it.  To  every  impartial 
eye  he  must  have  been  seen  to  be  unfitted  for  it,  both 
by  temperament  and  trend  of  mind." 

"  His  trend  of  mind  has  been  greatly  altered  since 
you  made  a  confidant  of  him." 

"  Please  let  me  finish.  You  accused  me  just  now  of 
influencing  him  in  the  decision  to  which  you  have  al- 
luded. I  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  He  has  always  taken 
it  for  granted  in  his  conversation  with  me  that  he  was 
to  take  Orders  after  leaving  Oxford,  and  I  have  said 
nothing  to  dissuade  him  from  the  step.  Whether  I 
should  have  gone  on  keeping  silence  on  what  I  have 
always  looked  upon  as  a  grave  mistake  is  another  ques- 
tion. But  I  should  have  done  or  said  nothing  behind 
your  back.  You  will  do  me  the  justice  to  remember 
that  the  crisis  which  resulted  in  his  rejecting  your 
plans  for  him  occurred  while  I  was  away.  It  was  only 
when  I  returned  that  he  told  me  that  he  had  made  the 


346  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

decision  for  himself.  It  was  a  decision  of  which  I 
thoroughly  approve,  and  still  more  do  I  approve  of  the 
spirit  of  honesty  in  which  it  was  made.  My  opinion  of 
the  boy  is  higher,  if  possible,  than  it  was  before.  You, 
in  the,  perhaps,  natural  disappointment  you  have  suf- 
fered from,  have  not  cared,  apparently,  to  accord  him 
any  credit  for  the  sacrifice  he  was  prepared  to  make, 
and  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  obliged  to  make,  in  order 
to  preserve  his  independence  of  mind." 

"  What  sacrifice  do  you  allude  to  ?  I  do  not  under- 
stand you." 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  a  small  thing  for  a  boy  of  his 
age  to  give  up  the  idea  of  going  to  the  University,  and 
to  be  told  to  turn  out  at  once  to  make  his  living  with- 
out help  from  you,  his  father,  or  anybody?  " 

John  Baldock  suddenly  became  excited.  "  I  am  not 
to  be  driven  into  a  decision  on  a  matter  of  such  moment 
with  unthinking  suddenness,"  he  said.  "  It  is  a  matter 
that  is  continually  in  my  thoughts,  and  I  arrive  at 
conclusions  in  my  own  way.  An  opening  has  occurred 
in  which  I  can  assist  him,  and  I  am  strongly  tempted 
to  close  with  it.  But  I  will  not  be  hurried." 

"  The  temptation  must  have  attacked  you  rather 
suddenly,  Mr.  Baldock,"  said  the  Squire,  drily.  "  I 
know  to  what  you  refer,  and  I  have  heard  that  when 
the  opening  was  offered  to  you,  a  very  few  hours  ago, 
you  rejected  it  somewhat  contemptuously." 

"  So  that  is  known  to  you,  Mr.  Ventrey.  It  seems 
to  me  that  I  was  right  in  saying  that  my  son's  own 
plans  for  his  future  are  discussed  with  you  more  freely 
than  with  me." 

"  That  is  not  what  you  said.  If  it  had  been,  I  should 
not  have  contradicted  you.  Can  you  be  surprised  at 
it?" 


THE  THIRD  SIDE  347 

The  father's  face  fell.  He  was  too  free  from  guile  to 
care  to  hide  the  fact  that  the  shot  had  told. 

"  What  you  did  say,"  pursued  the  Squire,  "  was  that 
I  had  influenced  your  son  against  your  wishes.  And 
that  I  deny." 

"  I  repeat  the  accusation,"  said  John  Baldock,  once 
more  becoming  heated.  "  It  has  not  been  done  directly, 
perhaps,  but  the  influence  has  worked  with  every  word 
you  have  spoken.  You  have  inoculated  the  boy  with 
your  views  of  life.  They  are  not  the  views  of  a  Chris- 
tian. They  have  a  specious  air  of  high-mindedness — 
I  am  well  aware  of  that,  and  they  are  all  the  more  in- 
sidious and  dangerous  on  that  account.  As  a  minister 
of  Christ's  Gospel,  it  is  my  duty  to  tell  you  that  the 
views  you  hold  and  freely  express,  not  to  those  who  can 
refute  them,  but  to  the  young  and  impressionable,  are 
more  soul-destroying  than  open  blasphemies  against  the 
truth." 

"  That,  I  know,  is  the  view  of  you  and  your  co- 
religionists," replied  the  Squire,  apparently  unmoved 
by  this  outburst.  "  It  seems  to  me  a  very  shocking 
view  for  a  man  who  preaches  the  gospel  of  charity  to 
hold.  But  I  am  not  concerned  to  refute  it.  As  far  as 
Richard  is  concerned,  if  I  read  him  aright,  he  must  have 
come  to  reject  it  in  time,  even  if  my  baleful  example 
had  never  affected  him.  But  come,  Mr.  Baldock,  let  us 
cease  from  these  recriminations.  We  both  have  the  wel- 
fare of  your  boy  at  heart.  You  have  admitted  yourself 
that  your  hopes  of  making  a  clergyman  of  him  are  at 
an  end.  Surely  we  can  combine  to  help  him  to  some 
other  career  which  both  of  us  will  be  happy  to  see  him 
embarked  on.  Let  us  settle  on  the  preliminary  of  Ox- 
ford, and  leave  the  rest  till  a  later  date." 

John    Baldock    rose.     "  No,"    he    said,    decisively. 


348  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  My  mind  is  now  clear.  He  shall  not  be  placed  in  an 
atmosphere  of  doubt  and  infidelity.  For  such  a  nature 
as  his  there  is  nothing  spiritually  stimulating  in  such 
a  place  as  Oxford.  I  have  already  refused  to  counte- 
nance his  going  to  the  University  unless  it  is  with  the 
direct  determination  to  resist  the  spirit  of  levity  and 
prepare  quietly  for  a  life  of  teaching  and  service.  As 
he  has  rejected  that,  I  choose  that  he  shall  take  up  some 
honest  work  such  as  has  been  proposed  to  me.  It  is 
better  for  him  to  live  an  obscure  life,  doing  his  daily 
round  of  duty,  than  continue  to  exercise  his  brain  in 
idleness,  sucking  in  with  worldly  knowledge  the  poison 
of  doubt.  I  thank  you  for  your  offer,  Mr.  Ventrey, 
and  refuse  it." 

Mr.  Ventrey  lay  in  his  chair,  a  prey  to  his  infirmity. 
His  eyes  flashed  beneath  the  thick  white  brows,  but  his 
lips  smiled.  "  Ah,"  he  said,  lightly.  "  You  have  the 
advantage  of  me  in  being  able  to  stand  and  thunder 
forth  your  refusal.  But  I  think,  my  friend,  it  is  a  little 
ungenerous  to  adopt  that  attitude  towards  an  old  man 
whose  limbs  are  powerless." 

John  Baldock  sat  down  again  awkwardly. 

"  You  are  a  man  of  honest  but  very  mistaken  views," 
said  the  Squire,  evenly.  "  And  you  are  not  the  kind 
of  man  with  whom  it  is  possible  to  argue.  I  shall  not 
attempt  to  do  so.  You  have  thrown  the  gage.  I  accept 
it.  I  give  you  fair  warning  of  my  intention.  I  think  it 
is  a  shameful  thing  that  you  should  seek  to  impose  your 
own  limited  outlook  on  a  nature  prepared  for  all  good 
and  high  purposes.  I  shall  resist  your  attempt  to 
do  so." 

"  You  mean,  I  suppose,"  said  the  other  quietly, 
"  that  you  will  try  to  influence  my  own  son  to  turn 
away  from  me." 


THE  THIRD  SIDE  349 

"  I  mean  that  I  shall  point  out  to  him  where  I  think 
you  are  mistaken.  I  shall  ask  him  to  exercise  his  own 
reason,  as  he  has  already  done,  and  resisted  your  will 
where  it  was  obviously  to  his  soul's  harm  to  acquiesce 
in  it.  He  is  of  an  age  to  decide  such  matters  as  these 
for  himself,  and  you  are  wrong  in  assuming  unreason- 
ing authority  over  him.  If  you  are  wise  you  will  accept 
his  decision.  Otherwise,  you  will  be  repelling  him  in  a 
way  which  I  should  be  sorry  to  see  him  repelled  from 
his  father." 

John  Baldock  rose  again.  "  These  are  idle  words, 
Mr.  Ventrey,"  he  said,  with  some  dignity.  "  The  effect 
of  your  intention  is  plain.  I  have  nothing  to  say  in  an- 
swer to  your  threat,  except  that  I  shall  do  my  best, 
God  helping  me,  to  retain  my  hold  over  my  son's  affec- 
tions, and  to  advise  him  as  I  may  be  guided.  I  will  wish 
you  good-afternoon."  And  he  went  out  without  any 
other  form  of  leave-taking. 

He  walked  home  trying  to  bring  his  thoughts  and 
passions  into  subjection,  for  his  passions  had  been 
unduly  exercised  by  his  late  interview.  The  beauties  of 
a  mellow  autumn  afternoon  brooding  over  the  fair  scenes 
amongst  which  his  life  and  labours  were  spent  did  little 
to  soothe  him.  He  was  not  under  the  sway  of  such  in- 
fluences. He  walked  with  his  eyes  downcast,  intent  upon 
the  thoughts  within  him.  With  all  the  waywardness 
of  the  fanatic,  impelled  now  in  one  direction,  now  in 
another,  by  the  power  of  an  idea  he  is  unable  or  unwill- 
ing to  adjust  to  a  consistent  course,  he  was  now  all 
eager  to  push  his  son  at  once  into  the  path  he  had  re- 
jected for  him  that  morning.  It  would  be  the  saving 
of  him  from  the  demoralizing  attentions  of  the  Squire, 
whom  he  now  considered  as  having  thrown  off  his  mask 
of  goodness,  and  as  having  shown  himself  in  all  the 


350  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

hideous  guise  of  the  tempter.  Whatever  happened,  he 
would  forbid  his  son  to  have  further  dealings  with  a 
man  of  such  dangerous  ascendancy.  And  he  would  make 
it  very  clear  that  under  no  conditions  would  he  permit 
him  to  accept  the  offer  that  had  been  made  on  his  behalf. 
'He  did  not  stop  to  consider  the  generosity  of  that  offer. 
It  was  enough  for  him  that  it  had  been  made  by  one 
whom  he  now  profoundly  distrusted.  No  doubt  it  had 
some  unworthy,  undisclosed  purpose.  It  remained  in 
his  mind  only  to  be  determinedly  rejected.  The  money 
that  was  required  for  Richard's  entry  into  Meaking's 
business  should  be  found  somehow.  He  did  not  see  at 
the  moment  whence  it  was  to  come,  but  that  did  not 
trouble  him.  It  was  God's  wish  that  Richard  should  be 
shut  up  into  this  engagement  as  in  an  ark  of  refuge,  and 
the  money  would  be  provided.  No  trace  of  the  suspicion 
he  had  shown  of  the  offer  in  the  morning  remained. 
Everything  was  now  taken  for  granted.  The  wisdom  of 
having  an  examination  of  the  state  and  prospects  of  the 
business  in  which  money  was  to  be  invested  did  not  even 
occur  to  him.  If  he  had  been  able  to  do  so,  he  would  have 
sent  Meaking  a  cheque  for  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
the  moment  he  reached  home,  and  closed  the  bargain. 

He  met  Richard  in  the  garden  and  ordered  him 
peremptorily  into  his  study. 

"  Has  Mr.  Ventrey  told  you  of  the  proposal  he  has 
made  to  me — that  he  should  pay  your  expenses  at  Ox- 
ford ? "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Richard. 
"  Then  why  didn't  you  tell  me  of  it?  " 
"  Mr.  Ventrey  asked  me  not  to  for  the  present." 
"  And  you  think  it  is  right  that  you  should  be  asked 
to  hide  things  from  your  father,  and  that  you  should 
consent  to  do  it?  " 


THE  THIRD  SIDE  351 

"  I  went  up  to  the  Hall  this  morning  to  tell  him 
that  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  it.  I  didn't  want 
to  keep  anything  from  you,  but,  really,  father — I  must 
say  it — you  have  been  so  unreasonable  and  harsh  with 
me  lately  that  I  haven't  had  much  inclination  to  con- 
sult you." 

"  You  are  forgetting  the  respect  due  to  me." 

"  I  don't  want  to.  But  how  am  I  to  act  ?  You  told 
me  yourself  that  you  washed  your  hands  of  me,  and  that 
I  could  do  what  I  liked.  When  I  brought  you  Meaking's 
proposal,  you  wouldn't  hear  of  it,  and  you  treated  him 
this  morning  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  him  feel  very 
sore.  You  don't  help  me.  You  don't  help  me  in  the 
least.  You  only  show  anger  at  whatever  I  say  or  do." 

He  spoke  with  considerable  impatience,  and  John 
Baldock  was  not  the  man  to  allow  impatience  of  speech 
from  anybody  but  himself. 

"  I  will  not  have  you  twisting  my  words  and  actions 
to  excuse  your  own  insubordination,"  he  said.  "  Mea- 
king's proposal  had  to  be  considered,  and  it  is  childish 
of  him  and  impertinent  of  you  to  take  exception  to  my 
way  of  doing  so.  I  have  now  considered  it,  and  I  shall 
accept  it.  It  is  a  good  opening  for  you,  and  will  give 
you  something  to  do  at  once." 

"  If  you  had  said  that  yesterday,  father,  or  showed 
that  you  might  come  to  say  it,  I  should  have  been  very 
pleased.  But  Mr.  Ventrey  has  shown  me  that  I  ought 
not  to  lose  any  chances  of  doing  better  work  than  I 
could  do  as  a  bookseller,  and  he  has  made  me  a  very 
generous  offer  which  I  have  accepted." 

John  Baldock's  face  became  dark  with  anger.  "  You 
have  accepted  !  "  he  exclaimed,  contemptuously.  "  A 
pretty  thing,  indeed,  if  a  boy  of  eighteen  is  to  be  al- 
lowed to  set  himself  against  his  father's  wishes  and 


352  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

arrange  his   actions   according   to   the   pleasure   of   a 
stranger." 

"  Mr.  Ventrey  is  not  a  stranger.  He  has  shown  me 
the  greatest  kindness  for  years,  and  his  advice  has  al- 
ways been  ready  for  me  when  I  couldn't  get  advice  from 
you." 

"  You  could  always  get  advice  from  me  when  you 
approached  me  in  the  proper  spirit.  Mr.  Ventrey  has 
acquired  a  most  ruinous  influence  over  you.  I  put  it 
down  to  him  that  you  have  so  obstinately  set  your  will 
against  mine  in  the  matter  of  taking  Orders.  But  that 
is  over  now.  I  have  no  wish  to  reopen  the  question. 
You  have  persisted  in  your  rejection  of  guidance,  and 
the  result  must  be  upon  your  own  head.  But  I  insist 
with  the  whole  force  of  my  authority  that  you  shall  not 
imperil  your  soul's  health  further.  I  now  look  upon  a 
residence  at  Oxford,  in  the  circumstances  under  which 
you  would  obtain  it,  as  the  worst  possible  thing  for 
you.  I  am  pretty  certain  that  you  would  be  idle  and 
would  become  greatly  demoralized." 

"  I  should  not  be  idle,"  Richard  broke  in.  "  Mr. 
Ventrey  warned  me  against  that  himself.  Unless  I  go 
to  Oxford  to  learn,  he  thinks  too  that  it  would  not  be 
a  good  thing.  And  if  I  do  go,  I  am  determined  to  work 
hard  and  do  my  very  best." 

"  If  you  go !  You  are  not  going,  I  tell  you.  My 
opposition  would  not  be  in  the  least  removed  if  I  were 
assured  that  you  would  work  your  hardest.  As  Mr. 
Ventrey's  beneficiary  you  would  follow  out  his  views  as 
to  your  education,  and  they  would  not  be  on  religious 
lines,  not  even  Christian  lines.  Mr.  Ventrey  has  shown 
himself  in  his  true  colours  to  me.  He  is  not  a  Christian 
man.  He  makes  no  pretence  of  being  so,  or  even  of 
treating  the  views  of  a  Christian  with  respect.  I  will 


THE  THIRD  SIDE  353 

have  no  more  dallying  with  infidelity.  I  command  you 
to  break  off  your  intimacy  with  Mr.  Ventrey.  You 
are  to  have  nothing  more  to  say  or  to  do  with  him." 

Richard's  face  became  set.  It  bore  a  look  that  ought 
never  to  have  been  seen  upon  it,  and  never  would  have 
been  seen  but  for  his  father's  unwisdom  in  dealing  with 
him.  "  I  shall  not  obey  a  command  of  that  sort,"  he 
said. 

John  Baldock  habitually  used  his  heaviest  guns  when 
excited  over  the  most  ordinary  question,  and  had  no 
reserve  of  surprise  and  indignation  to  draw  on,  con- 
fronted with  this  revolutionary  attitude.  "  You  will 
not  obey  me !  "  he  exclaimed,  ineffectively. 

"  No.  If  you  had  forbidden  me  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  Mr.  Ventrey  when  he  first  came  here,  it  might 
have  been  different.  But  I  have  had  years  of  kindness 
from  him,  and  he  has  always  treated  me  as  a  real  friend. 
You  had  nothing  to  say  against  it  all  that  time.  I 
haven't  got  many  friends,  and  I  am  not  going  to  turn 
my  back  on  one  of  the  best  of  them." 

John  Baldock  was  tempted  again  to  say  that  he 
washed  his  hands  of  his  son.  But  he  had  already  said 
it  once,  without  actually  meaning  it,  and  felt  that  the 
threat  would  be  inadequate.  He  had  no  wish  to  wash 
his  hands  of  Richard.  He  wanted  to  force  him  to  his 
will.  He  saw  now  that  he  could  not  do  so.  His  son 
was  too  old  and  too  self-reliant  to  be  forced,  and  he 
himself  was  not  strong  enough  to  use  the  necessary 
pressure.  He  realized  something  of  this  as  he  sat  at  his 
desk  opposite  to  Richard  with  his  face  and  lips  set. 
But  the  matter  was  too  near  his  heart  to  cause  him  to 
hesitate.  At  the  moment  of  defeat  his  true  strength 
asserted  itself.  He  loved  his  son,  and  he  was  assured 
that  it  was  his  duty  to  save  from  a  great  peril.  He 


354  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

dropped  his  hectoring  manner  on  the  instant,  and  took 
another  tone. 

"  Your  obstinacy  is  causing  me  great  pain,  Rich- 
ard," he  said  quietly.  "  You  put  yourself  into  conflict 
with  me,  but  you  cannot  be  happy  in  doing  so.  You 
know  that  I  have  only  your  welfare  at  heart.  Believe 
me,  that  the  course  you  are  bent  on  pursuing  will  turn 
out  disastrously  for  you.  You  were  all  eagerness  a 
very  short  time  ago  to  embrace  this  opportunity  that 
young  Meaking  has  provided  for  you.  Perhaps  I  was 
over  hasty  in  rejecting  it  at  the  time.  Yes,  I  did  reject 
it.  I  still  had  hopes  that  you  would  see  your  way  to 
following  my  long-cherished  plans  for  you.  I  have 
buried  that  wish  now.  But  I  still  long  to  see  you  a 
good,  humble-living  man,  and  I  believe  that  your  best 
chance  of  becoming  so  will  be  for  you  to  take  up  this 
work  that  has  been  provided  close  at  hand  for  you. 
Why  cannot  you  follow  your  first  inclination  and  do  so? 
I  will  make  any  sacrifice  to  help  you.  We  need  not  be 
parted,  and  can  live  together  until  it  pleases  God  to 
take  me  from  the  scene  of  my  labours,  getting,  I  trust, 
to  know  and  respect  each  other  better  as  the  quiet  years 
go  by." 

Richard  was  touched  by  this  appeal,  as  he  was  al- 
ways touched  when  his  father  became  reasonable  and 
human.  And  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  sudden  removal 
of  the  difficulties  in  the  way  of  his  joining  Meaking  at 
once  weighed  with  him.  That  prospect  still  had  power 
to  charm  him,  in  spite  of  the  cold  water  that  the  Squire 
had  thrown  on  it.  But  there  were  other  considerations. 

"  I  can't  promise  to  give  up  my  friendship  with  Mr. 
Ventrey,"  he  said.  His  tone  was  decisive,  but  his  face 
was  softened. 

"  Can  you  not  trust  me  to  judge?  "  asked  his  father. 


THE  THIRD  SIDE  355 

"  I  tell  you  in  all  seriousness  that  Mr.  Ventrey's  influ- 
ence is  of  evil,  not  of  good." 

"  I  don't  think  so.  He  has  helped  me  a  great  deal — 
in  man}*  ways.  I  cannot  possibly  promise  to  give  him 
up." 

John  Baldock  thought  for  a  moment.  His  anger  had 
disappeared.  He  was  all  reasonableness,  both  of  inten- 
tion and  manner. 

"  Perhaps  it  would  not  be  possible  for  you  to  do  so 
entirely,"  he  said. 

"  I  can't  make  any  difference  at  all,"  replied  Richard 
promptly.  "  I  am  old  enough  now  to  choose  my  own 
friends." 

John  Baldock  thought  again.  There  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  give  way  on  this  point.  But  he  reflected 
that  if  he  gained  his  chief  desire,  his  son  would  still 
be  with  him  and  under  his  watchful  care.  God  helping 
him,  he  would  exercise  that  care  wisely.  His  mind 
cleared. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  he  said,  "  you  shall  do  as  you  wish 
about  it.  But  you  must  not  forget  that  your  chief 
friend  ought  to  be  your  father,  who  desires  nothing 
more  than  that  you  should  rely  on  him  for  what  help 
and  guidance  he  can  give  you." 

Richard's  mood  melted.  "  Oh,  father,"  he  said,  "  I 
never  do  forget  it  when  you  talk  to  me  like  that.  But 
you  have  given  me  so  little  help  lately." 

"  Let  us  start  again,  then.  How  do  you  stand  with 
Mr.  Ventrey  as  to  his  offer?  Have  you  actually  pledged 
yourself  to  accept  it?  " 

"  Yes.  No.  I  don't  know  that  I  have  actually 
pledged  myself.  I  should  not  mind  telling  Mr.  Ventrey 
that  I  found  I  could  not  accept  his  offer,  if — if  I  de- 
cided not  to  do  so.  But  I  must  think  it  over,  father — 


356  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

quietly  by  myself.  I  can't  say  one  thing  and  then 
another  at  a  moment's  notice." 

"  Well,  then,  Richard,  think  it  over.  But  do  not  say 
anything  either  to  yourself  or  to  Mr.  Ventrey  until  you 
have  talked  with  me  again.  Will  you  promise  me 
that?" 

"  Yes,  I  will." 

"  Then  God  guide  you  aright,  my  boy.  I  leave  the 
matter  in  His  hands." 

So  Richard  was  again  thrown  into  doubt,  and  again 
went  out  to  take  counsel  with  himself  on  a  problem  of 
ever-increasing  difficulty. 


CHAPTER    XXVII 
A  NEW  LIGHT 

IT  was  the  morning  after  Richard's  interview  with  his 
father.  He  had  come  to  no  new  decision.  His  brain 
and  his  will  were  tired.  He  had  only  to  set  himself  to 
weigh  once  again  the  alternate  courses  he  had  before 
him  to  feel  a  sort  of  heavy  languor  descending  on  his 
mind,  through  which  no  clear  determination  could 
pierce.  He  felt  incapable  of  judging  between  the  con- 
victions of  his  father  and  those  of  the  Squire,  incapable 
even  of  disengaging  his  own  desires  from  the  confusion 
of  purpose  to  which  he  had  been  brought.  It  was  more 
in  idleness  of  mind  than  from  a  wish  for  further  en- 
lightenment that  he  had  saddled  his  horse  and  ridden 
over  to  Storbridge  to  see  Meaking. 

Meaking  was  busy  in  the  smaller  of  the  two  shops, 
and  Richard  found  him  there  alone.  His  friend  did  not 
greet  him  with  his  usual  cordiality.  He  looked  worried 
and  put  out. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  suppose  I'm  beaten.  You  are 
going  to  Oxford  to  be  turned  into  a  fine  gentleman. 
And  you  are  going  to  chuck  away  everything  that  I 
could  have  done  for  you." 

"  I  don't  know,"  Richard  replied.  "  I  can't  make  up 
my  mind.  I  don't  even  know  which  I  should  like  best." 

"  7  know  well  enough,"  said  Meaking.  "  You'd  like 
this  best.  You'd  be  interested  every  hour  of  the  day. 
And  you'd  feel  you  were  doing  something.  You'd  be  a 
man.  You  might  begin  being  a  man  to-morrow  if  you 

857 


358  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

liked.  But  you  are  not  going  to  be.  You  are  going  to 
be  a  schoolboy  for  another  five  years  or  so.  Very 
jolly,  no  doubt.  I  dare  say  you'll  have  a  rare  good  time. 
I  wouldn't  change  places  with  you  all  the  same." 

"  I  should  work,  you  know,"  said  Dick,  a  little  put 
out  by  his  friend's  contemptuous  tone. 

"  No,  you  wouldn't  work,"  answered  Meaking.  "  At 
least  not  to  any  purpose.  It  isn't  your  line.  That's 
where  Mr.  Ventrey  makes  his  mistake.  I've  been  think- 
ing over  the  situation  during  the  night,  and  I've  got 
the  hang  of  it.  If  Mr.  Ventrey  saw  as  clearly  as  I  do 
what'll  be  the  outcome  of  it,  he'd  take  back  his  offer. 
I  dare  say  you'll  do  a  good  deal  of  what  they  call  work 
at  Oxford,  the  same  as  you  do  now  at  school,  and  I 
dare  say  you'll  pass  your  examinations  very  well. 
That'll  be  the  end  of  it.  When  you've  finished  your 
time  at  Oxford  you'll  stand  just  where  you  are  now, 
except  that  you'll  have  rubbed  up  against  a  few  more 
people  and  learnt  something  in  that  way.  You're  not 
the  sort  to  learn  much  from  books.  As  sure  as  I  stand 
here,  when  you've  finished  with  Oxford,  however  hard 
you  work,  Mr.  Ventrey  will  be  disappointed  in  you,  and 
you'll  be  disappointed  in  yourself.  I  can't  warn  Mr. 
Ventrey.  He's  too  big  a  man  to  talk  to,  and  means 
that  I  shall  know  it.  But  I  hare  warned  you  and  I 
warn  you  again.  You've  had  just  exactly  as  much  edu- 
cation out  of  books  as  you  can  do  with,  and  you're 
ripe  to  begin  work  at  something  real.  Go  on  trying  to 
learn  out  of  books  and  you'll  only  go  forward  in  time. 
In  no  other  way.  You'll  begin  your  life  five  years  from 
now  over  again  disappointed  in  yourself,  and  that's  the 
worst  sort  of  start  you  can  have.  You  bear  in  mind 
what  I  say  and  remember  it  when  you  leave  Oxford." 

"  I  think   you're   rather  hard   on  me,  John,"   said 


A  NEW  LIGHT  359 

Richard,  somewhat  dejectedly.  "  You  know  I'd  like  to 
join  you — and  as  a  matter  of  fact  father  wants  me  to, 
now.  But  it  is  a  difficult  thing  to  make  up  one's  mind  to 
throw  over  the  chances  that  Mr.  Ventrey  has  offered  me, 
especially  after  what  he  has  said  about  it.  And  you 
know  how  I've  always  looked  forward  to  going  to 
Oxford." 

"  Yes,  I  do  know.  And  your  reason  for  wanting  to 
go  now  is  the  same  as  it's  always  been,  only  you  deceive 
yourself  about  it.  If  you  could  get  the  advantages  that 
Mr.  Ventrey  thinks  you  will  get  by  going  and  studying 
at  Manchester  or  Liverpool  you  wouldn't  look  twice  at 
his  offer.  You  want  to  go  to  Oxford.  Why?  Because 
of  the  romance  of  the  life  there.  I'll  tell  you  this,  no 
romance  of  that  sort  lasts  longer  than  a  few  weeks, 
wherever  you  are.  When  you  have  been  at  Oxford  a 
term  it  will  be  just  as  ordinary  and  humdrum  to  you 
as  Storbridge  is.  You'll  go  on  enjoying  life,  I  dare 
say,  but  you  won't  enjoy  it  as  much  as  you  think  you 
will." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  what  to  say,"  said  Richard,  irreso- 
lutely. 

"  Good  heavens !  "  exclaimed  Meaking,  his  eyes  flash- 
ing. "  I  wish  I  could  bring  it  home  to  you — how  you'd 
enjoy  the  work  you'd  have  to  do  here,  and  the  enter- 
prise of  getting  on,  and  all  of  it.  You  would  not  want 
to  know  what  to  say  for  long.  And  you  say  your 
father  has  come  round?  Well,  I  won't  say  anything 
more  about  it.  I  should  get  carried  out  of  myself. 
You  must  decide  on  your  own  account.  But  there — • 
I  dare  say  you  are  pretty  well  decided  already.  Yes, 
sir,  what  can  I  do  for  you?" 

A  customer  had  come  into  the  shop,  a  young  man  in 
smart  yachting  costume,  a  good-looking,  dark  young 


RICHARD  BALDOCK 

man  with  a  calm  air  of  self-possession,  not  to  say  au- 
thority. Richard  turned  round  at  Meaking's  words, 
and  recognized  Laurence  Syde. 

The  recognition  was  mutual.  "  Hullo,  Baldock," 
said  Laurence  in  a  tone  that  showed  no  surprise  and 
little  pleasure.  "  Who'd  have  thought  of  finding  you 
in  this  dead  and  alive  hole?  How  are  you?  " 

They  shook  hands.  Richard  had  cause  to  remem- 
ber his  acquaintanceship  with  Laurence  with  very  little 
gratification.  He  had  grown  old  enough  during  tjie 
five  years  that  had  elapsed  since  they  had  met  to  gauge 
accurately  the  part  his  one-time  companion  had  played 
in  the  disgrace  which  had  befallen  him  with  his  aunt. 
But  he  was  carried  away  by  the  other's  assurance,  and 
replied  without  stiffness  that  his  home  was  not  far  off, 
and  asked  Laurence  in  return  how  he  came  to  be  at 
Storbridge. 

"  We  are  at  Cowes,"  said  Laurence.  "  Lady  Syde 
thought  she'd  like  to  have  a  look  at  the  forest.  We're 
staying  here  for  lunch.  I  thought  I'd  see  if  I  could 
get  hold  of  something  to  read.  Have  you  got  any  good 
new  sporting  novels?"  he  asked,  turning  to  Meaking. 
"  Nothing  newer  than  '  Handley  Cross,'  "  replied  Mea- 
king. "  There's  not  much  sale  for  sporting  novels  in 
these  parts." 

"  I  don't  suppose  there  is,"  said  Laurence.  "  It 
stems  about  as  lively  as  a  graveyard.  I  don't  want 
to  buy  Jorrocks,  thanks.  Come  on,  Baldock,  you'd 
better  come  and  see  her  ladyship.  She's  at  the 
'  King's  Head,'  resting.  Better  come  to  lunch.  She'll 
be  pleased  to  see  you." 

Richard  hardly  knew  what  to  say.  He  did  not  sup- 
pose that  his  aunt,  whom  he  recognized  with  difficulty 
under  her  new  name,  would  be  particularly  pleased  to 


A  NEW  LIGHT  361 

see  him,  but  Laurence  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted 
that  he  would  do  as  he  was  asked,  and  walked  out  of 
the  shop  quite  in  hi&  old  authoritative  manner,  evi- 
dently expecting  that  Richard  would  follow  him,  which 
he  did,  having  first  murmured  to  Meaking  a  promise  to 
return. 

"  What  are  you  doing  now  ?  "  Laurence  asked  him, 
as  they  walked  up  the  cobbled  street  together,  to  out- 
ward appearance  an  ill-assorted  pair,  the  one  in  his  well- 
cut  suit  of  dark  serge,  the  other  in  rough  ill-fitting 
country-made  clothes.  "  Gone  to  Oxford  yet  ?  " 

"  No,  I  shouldn't  go  anyhow  for  another  year,"  re- 
plied Richard.  "  I'm  at  school." 

"What,  at  Rugby?" 

"  No,  at  the  Grammar  School  here  at  Storbridge. 
I  live  at  home  and  ride  over  every  day  in  term  time." 

"  Still  great  on  horses,  eh  ?  That's  one  thing  you 
could  do — ride.  My  father  said  you  had  the  best  seat 
on  a  pony  of  any  boy  he'd  ever  seen." 

Richard  remembered  that  Sir  Franklin  had  never 
seen  him  on  a  pony,  although  he  had  promised  to  ride 
with  him,  and  took  the  easy  compliment  for  what  it 
was  worth. 

"  I'm  not  so  much  behind  you  there  as  I  was,"  Lau- 
rence went  on.  "  I'm  reckoned  a  pretty  good  man  on  a 
horse  at  Cambridge.  Of  course  I've  hunted  a  lot  since 
I  saw  you.  I  shall  be  Master  of  the  Drag  next  term ; 
if  it'll  run  to  it,  that  is.  I'm  pretty  hard  up,  but  I  dare 

say  I  shall  be  able  to  get "  He  pulled  himself  up. 

It  was  obvious  what  he  expected  to  be  able  to  get,  and 
from  whom.  "  Why  don't  you  come  up  to  Cambridge  ?  " 
he  went  on,  a  little  hastily.  "  It's  a  better  place  than 
Oxford.  They  let  you  alone  more — at  least  they  do  at 
the  Hall.  What  college  are  you  going  to  at  Oxford?  " 


362  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

Richard  felt  no  inclination  to  explain  how  matters 
stood  with  him.  "  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "  It  de- 
pends on  scholarships,  probably.  I  should  like  to  go  to 
University  College.  My  father  was  there." 

"  Well,  it's  an  overrated  place.  I  don't  mean  Univ., 
or  Oxford  particularly.  Both  of  'em.  I'm  only  going 
to  stay  up  another  two  terms.  I  shouldn't  come  down 
now  if  it  weren't  for  the  Drag.  I've  had  enough  of  it." 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  take  a  degree?  " 

"  What's  the  good  of  a  degree  to  me?  I  should  be 
very  sorry  to  have  to  stay  up  for  three  years  for  the 
sake  of  one.  I  liked  it  at  first  all  right,  although  I 
always  hated  the  rules,  what  there  are  of  them.  But,  as 
I -say,  they  don't  trouble  you  much  at  the  Hall." 

"  Is  that  Trinity  Hall?  Have  you  got  rooms  in  col- 
lege? " 

"  No,  thank  you.  Never  go  near  the  place  if  I  can 
help  it.  You're  much  freer  in  lodgings." 

"  Don't  you  haVe  to  dine  there?  " 

"  No.  You've  got  to  pay  for  your  dinner  a  certain 
number  of  days  in  the  week,  but  you  needn't  eat  it, 
thank  goodness.  I  tried  it  once  when  I  first  went  up. 
Never  again." 

"  What  do  you  do,  then?  " 

"  You  can  have  your  dinner  sent  in  to  your  rooms 
from  the  college  kitchens.  They  don't  cook  badly. 
And,  of  course,  you  have  your  own  wine.  They  don't 
allow  you  to  drink  wine  at  all  in  Hall." 

"It's  rather  lonely,  isn't  it?" 

"  Lonely?  Well,  I  never  heard  it  called  that  before. 
You  don't  suppose  we  dine  in  solitary  grandeur,  do 
you?  There's  somebody  giving  a  dinner  every  night 
of  the  week,  and  if  there  isn't  you  give  one  yourself. 
I'm  not  sure  the  dinners  aren't  the  best  part  of  the 


w 


A  NEW  LIGHT  363 

whole  show.  The  amount  of  champagne  \ve  manage  to 
consume  in  the  course  of  a  term  would — would — well,- 
it'd  float  a  'bus.  And  it  doesn't  exactly  depress  us 
either.  The  hilarity  of  the  proceedings  is  sometimes 
excessive.  But  after  all  it  isn't  necessary  to  go  to  the 
Universit}-  to  drink  enough  champagne  to  make  you 
merry.  That's  why  I'm  getting  tired  of  the  place. 
Everything  you  do  to  amuse  yourself  there  you  can  do 
just  as  well  out  of  it,  and  you  aren't  always  liable 
to  be  knocking  up  against  a  proctor  or  a  don  of  some 
sort,  or  having  differences  of  opinion  over  quite  inno- 
cent little  enjoyments.  I'm  going  into  the  Guards,  you 
know.  I  shall  be  quite  ready  for  it  when  I've  had  my 
season  with  the  Drag.  I  shall  have  had  quite  as  much 
of  Cambridge  as  I  can  do  with." 

This  picture  of  University  life,  so  different  from  any- 
thing he  had  ever  pictured,  surprised  Richard  not  a 
little.  "  Don't  you  do  any  work?  "  he  asked. 

"  Not  more  than  I'm  obliged,"  replied  Laurence. 
'4  And  that  isn't  much.  I  don't  know  anybody  that 
does.  Here  we  are." 

They  had  come  to  the  doorway  of  the  old  inn  that 
graced  the  marketplace  of  Storbridge.  Laurence  led 
the  way  into  a  small  sitting-room,  where  Lady  Syde, 
formerly  Mrs.  Moggeridge,  was  reclining  on  a  sofa, 
reading  the  Morning  Post.  It  had  not  been  his  aunt's 
custom  to  recline  on  sofas,  or  to  recline  anywhere  dur- 
ing the  daytime  when  Richard  had  last  seen  her.  But 
she  looked  older,  rather  thinner,  and  as  if  she  had  lost 
something  of  her  earlier  vigour.  She  was  as  elabo- 
rately dressed  as  ever,  and  was  still  a  handsome  woman, 
with  her  beautifully  braided  iron-grey  hair  and  her 
neat  upright  figure.  There  was  no  languor  in  her  move- 
ments as  she  rose  from  the  sofa  upon  recognizing  her 


364.  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

nephew,  and  her  greeting  was  as  cordial  as  if  they  had 
recently  parted  the  best  of  friends. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  she  said,  "  how  you  have  grown ! 
And  what  a  pleasure  to  see  you  again!  It  takes  me 
back  to  the  old  days.  Give  me  a  kiss,  if  you  do  not 
think  yourself  too  grown  up.  Ah,  that  is  right.  You 
are  the  same,  but  altered.  I  knew  you  in  a  moment. 
But  you  have  grown  like  your  dear  mother.  I  can  see 
the  likeness  plainly.  You  will  lunch  with  us,  of  course, 
and  you  can  tell  me  what  you  are  doing,  and  intend 
to  do." 

Richard  was  rather  overcome  by  her  warmth  of 
manner,  obviously  sincere  for  the  moment,  but  prob- 
ably with  no  deep  root  in  her  feeling.  He  could  not 
forget,  though  she  seemed  to  have  done  so,  that  she 
had  treated  him  with  the  most  inequitable  disfavour 
when  he  had  last  seen  her,  and  that  she  had  shown  no 
interest  of  any  sort  in  him  or  his  welfare  during  the 
five  years  that  had  elapsed  since  that  meeting.  He 
had  to  remind  himself  that  her  present  cordiality  was 
for  the  moment  only,  before  he  could  feel  at  ease  in 
her  presence.  When  he  had  done  so  he  was  prepared  to 
take  her  as  she  showed  herself,  but  still  remained  un- 
aggressively  on  his  guard. 

But,  by  the  time  the  meal  was  over,  he  had  almost 
entirely  relinquished  his  watchfulness  and  was  surprised 
to  find  himself  feeling  something  very  like  affection 
towards  his  aunt.  There  was  no  doubt  that  she  was 
pleased  to  see  him.  Her  manner  was  of  the  kindest, 
and  her  eyes  turned  to  him  constantly  with  a  soft  and 
almost  wistful  look.  Her  attitude  towards  Laurence, 
who  chatted  easily  when  the  conversation  was  such  as  he 
could  join  in,  and  sat  as  easily  silent  when  his  step- 
mother talked  to  Richard  about  her  recollections  of  his 


A  NEW  LIGHT  365 

home  and  his  mother,  as  she  did,  returning  to  the  sub- 
ject again  and  again,  was  not  the  pleased,  admiring  one 
that  it  had  been  when  he  and  Richard  were  boys  to- 
gether at  Paradine  Park.  It  was  not  unfriendly,  for 
she  talked  and  laughed  with  him  without  any  apparent 
reserve,  but  there  was  certainly  no  sign  of  admiration 
in  her  manner,  and  none  of  fondness ;  she  seemed  to 
accept  him  as  part  of  her  surroundings,  but  to  have 
lost  her  particular  interest  in  him.  It  was  Richard 
who  now  engaged  her  attention,  and  aroused  the  warmth 
in  her  manner. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  meal  she  suddenly  formed  the 
idea  of  driving  over  to  Beechurst,  and,  having  formed 
it,  followed  it  with  characteristic  determination.  "  I 
should  like  to  see  where  my  dear  sister  is  laid  to  rest," 
she  said,  "  and  the  house  where  she  lived  and  died,  sweet, 
unselfish  soul.  The  evenings  are  long;  there  will  be 
plenty  of  time." 

"  The  launch  was  to  meet  us  at  five  o'clock  at  Lymps- 
ford,"  Laurence  reminded  her. 

"  The  launch  can  be  sent  back  for  me  later," 
she  said.  "  You  can  go,  Laurence,  and  give  the 
orders." 

"  I  doubt  if  there  will  be  time,"  returned  Laurence. 
"  It  takes  pretty  well  an  hour  each  way.  It  wouldn't 
be  back  to  take  you  off  much  before  seven,  and  the  Duke 
of  Belfast  is  coming  to  dine,  you  know,  and  some  other 
men.  You  won't  have  time  to  dress." 

"  Then,  perhaps,  you  had  better  keep  the  launch  till 
six  o'clock.  I  ought  to  be  back  by  then,  and  if  not  it 
can  wait  a  little  longer." 

"  Am  I  to  kick  my  heels  round  Lympsford  until  six 
o'clock  or  later?"  asked  Laurence. 

"  I  dare  say  you  will  find  something  to  amuse  you," 


366  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

she  replied,  imperturbably.  "  But  no.  Go  to  the  yacht 
and  send  the  launch  back  for  me.  There  are  no  women 
coming.  I  will  leave  your  father  to  entertain  the  duke 
and  the  other  men." 

"  I  don't  think  he'll  like  it,  you  know,"  said  Laurence. 

It  did  not  appear  that  Lady  Syde  had  yet  come 
to  live  in  fear  of  her  husband,  for  this  warning  did  not 
affect  her  decision  or  her  manner. 

"  That  is  what  I  wish,"  she  said.  "  You  can  take 
our  carriage  back,  and  Richard  will  order  me  another 
from  here.  A  carriage  with  two  horses,  please,  Richard, 
so  that  I  can  drive  straight  back  from  Beechurst  to 
Lympsford.  And  as  soon  as  possible.  Laurence,  you 
may  settle  up  for  the  luncheon  here  and  for  the  other 
carriage.  Here  are  two  sovereigns.  That  ought  to 
be  enough." 

Laurence  pocketed  the  money,  and  went  out  with 
Richard.  "  I  say,  you're  in  high  favour,"  he  said,  as 
they  went  round  to  the  stable-yard.  "  If  you  play  your 
cards  well  you'll  cut  me  out  altogether.  There  was  a 
row  at  the  end  of  last  term  over  the  bills,  and  we're  not 
quite  over  the  effects  of  it  yet.  You'll  have  about  four 
hours  to  bring  her  round." 

The  cynicism  of  the  speech,  and  still  more  of  its 
manner,  angered  Richard,  and  disengaged  his  real 
opinion  )f  his  companion  from  the  wrappings  of  com- 
placency which  had  obscured  it.  He  found  his  tongue. 
"  I've  no  wish  to  cut  you  or  anybody  out,"  he  said. 
"  I  should  be  ashamed  to  toady  a  woman  for  the  sake 
of  her  money.  You  needn't  be  afraid  of  me.  You're 
welcome  to  all  you  can  screw  out  of  her  as  far  as  I'm 
concerned." 

Laurence  stopped  short  and  looked  at  him.  His  face 
was  hot  and  his  eyes  angry.  "  Do  you  know  what 


A  NEW  LIGHT  367 

you're  saying?"  he  said.  Richard  stopped,  too,  and 
met  his  look  squarely. 

"Yes,  very  well,"  he  replied.  "I'm  not  the  fool  I 
was  five  years  ago." 

Laurence  mastered  his  anger,  and  walked  on.  "  I've 
only  your  word  for  it,"  he  said,  insolently.  "  You 
don't  seem  to  be  any  more  of  a  gentleman,  anyhow." 

"  I  hope  I'm  not,  if  being  a  gentleman  only  means 
dressing  well  and  getting  drunk  and  spending  other 
people's  money,"  retorted  Richard.  "  Those  seem  to  be 
about  the  only  things  you're  proud  of." 

Laurence  turned  round  on  him  again.  "  I've  had 
enough  of  this,"  he  said,  wrathfully.  "  Who  are  you, 
you  ill-conditioned  young  clodhopper  to  talk  to  me  in 
that  way?" 

"  I'm  my  aunt's  nephew,  for  one  thing,"  answered 
Richard,  "  whom  you  got  turned  out  of  her  house  by 
a  dirty  trick  that  I  didn't  see  at  the  time,  because  you 
were  afraid  I  should  interfere  with  your  precious 
schemes." 

"Still  sore  at  not  getting  hold  of  her  money?" 
sneered  Laurence.  "  I'll  tell  her  what  you're  really 
thinking  of  all  the  time.  She'll  be  interested." 

"  You  can  tell  her  what  you  like.  I  don't  want  any- 
thing from  her.  You  can't  do  me  any  harm." 

"  I  shan't  do  you  any  good,  you  may  bet  your  life 
on  that.  You'd  better  make  the  most  of  your  oppor- 
tunity this  afternoon,  for  you  won't  get  another." 

With  which  he  turned  his  back,  and  walked  disdain- 
fully away. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

THE  END  OF  THE  MATTER 

THE  effect  on  Richard's  mind  of  his  altercation  with 
Laurence  amounted  almost  to  exhilaration.  He  had 
made  a  discovery  about  himself,  which  was  that  su- 
periority of  air,  appearance,  station,  in  spite  of  his 
readiness  to  yield  to  its  implied  claims  in  matters  of 
little  moment,  weighed  not  a  jot  with  him  against  the 
character  that  lay  beneath  it.  He  did  not  say  as  much 
as  this  to  himself,  nor  did  he  look  at  it  in  the  light  of  a 
discovery.  But  he  felt  none  of  that  after-discomfort 
which  is  experienced  by  one  who  has  expressed  himself 
too  freely  to  another  having  claims  on  his  deference. 
Richard  felt  no  deference  toward  Laurence,  no  respect 
for  anything  that  he  was  or  anything  that  he  had.  He 
despised  him  heartily,  and  was  relieved  at  having  been 
moved  to  show  it  plainly.  He  did  not  realize  that  in  his 
hasty  indignation  he  had  probably  given  a  false  impres- 
sion of  his  own  attitude  towards  him.  Laurence  would, 
no  doubt,  think  that  he  had  been  brooding  on  the  wrong 
that  had  been  done  him  with  regard  to  his  aunt,  and  that 
he  had  spoken  out  of  the  pent-up  soreness  of  five  years. 
But  he  did  not  mind  this  in  the  least.  It  was  not  true, 
and  it  was  enough  that  he  himself  knew  it  to  be  untrue. 
Laurence  might  think  what  he  pleased;  Sir  Franklin 
Syde,  who  would  no  doubt  be  told  of  what  had  hap- 
pened, might  think  what  he  pleased.  His  aunt — well,  his 
aunt  was  rather  different.  She  had  behaved  with  genu- 
ine friendliness  towards  him,  and  he  would  be  sorry  if 


THE  END  OF  THE  MATTER  369 

she  should  be  brought  again  to  do  him  an  injustice. 
But  her  friendliness  had  been  proved  so  unstable,  and 
her  claims  on  his  consideration  were  so  slight,  that  an 
additional  injustice  would  not  count  for  much.  At  any 
rate,  he  expected  and  wanted  nothing  from  her  in  the 
way  of  material  bounty,  was  independent  of  her,  owed 
her  nothing.  Yes,  she  also  might  thinki  what  she 
pleased.  No  disquieting  thoughts  would  trouble  his 
pillow  if  she  once  more  withdrew  her  favour,  and  he 
were  never  to  see  her  again. 

Having  gone  thus  far,  he  went  a  little  farther.  He 
would  preserve  his  complete  independence  against  his 
aunt.  He  had  gauged  her  well  enough  to  be  aware 
that  it  was  very  likely  that  in  her  present  mood  she 
would  offer  her  patronage  to  him  again  in  some  way. 
He  wanted  no  more  of  it,  with  its  sense  of  obligation 
and  probable  humiliation.  He  had  got  on  very  well 
without  her  help  so  far,  and  he  would  go  on  without  it 
to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  He  was  willing  to  forget 
the  injustice  she  had  done  him,  as  she  seemed  to  have 
done  so.  He  had  forgotten  it  until  she  had  crossed  his 
path  again.  But  he  would  not  willingly  put  himself  into 
a  position  in  which  he  might  have  to  undergo  it  again. 

These  thoughts  passed  through  his  mind  as  they  drove 
together  on  their  way  to  Beechurst.  His  aunt  was  un- 
usually silent  until  they  had  covered  a  mile  or  more  of 
their  journey,  and  by  the  time  she  spoke  to  him  he  had 
put  himself  on  the  defensive  against  her. 

"  Now  tell  me,"  she  said,  "  what  you  are  going  to 
do  when  you  leave  school.  I  suppose  you  will  not  be 
there  much  longer.  Are  you  going  to  follow  your  fa- 
ther's example,  and  become  a  clergyman?" 

"  No,"  said  Richard.  "  Father  wanted  me  to,  but 
I  didn't  see  my  way  to  it." 


370  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  I  am  rather  sorry  for  that.  It  is  a  quiet,  peaceful 
life — a  country  clergyman's,  I  mean.  I  should  think 
in  a  town  it  must  be  most  disagreeable.  But  in  a  place 
like  Beechurst.  So  retired ;  away  from  all  worry  and 
anxiety.  And  that  charming,  restful  old  house.  I  have 
the  clearest  recollections  of  it.  I  should  like  to  think 
of  you  settled  down  to  a  happy  existence  in  such  a 
place." 

Richard  did  not  feel  called  on  to  reply. 

"  But  you  say  you  could  not  see  your  way,"  she  went 
on.  "  Well,  of  course,  there  are  drawbacks.  There  is 
a  great  deal  of  promiscuous  praying  in  a  clergyman's 
life  with  which  he  cannot  always  feel  in  tune.  And 
other,  no  doubt,  irksome  duties.  Very  likely  anxieties 
would  enter  even  such  a  quiet  idyllic  spot  as  Beechurst. 
What  have  you  decided  upon  then  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  isn't  quite  decided  yet,"  said  Richard. 
"  I  have  a  chance  of  going  to  the  University,  but  I 
have  not  quite  made  up  my  mind  about  it." 

"  Oh,  don't  go  to  the  University,"  cried  Lady  Syde. 
"  It  is  the  worst  sort  of  place  for  a  young  man.  I  am 
sure  of  it.  The  temptations  are  overwhelming.  I  look 
upon  Cambridge — and  I  dare  say  Oxford  is  as  bad — 
simply  as  a  school  of  extravagance.  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  what  else  is  taught  there.  Money  is  spent  like 
water  over  one  amusement  after  the  other,  and  each  one 
more  extravagant  than  the  last.  Debts  are  piled  up 
to  an  incredible  extent,  and  of  course  parents — or 
those  responsible — have  to  pay  them.  I  do  not  desire 
to  pry  into  your  father's  affairs,  but  I  am  sure  he 
cannot  have  the  means  to  send  you  to  the  Uni- 
versity." 

"  Laurence  has  told  me  something  about  the  way  he 
amuses  himself  at  Cambridge,?'  said  Richard,  with  a 


THE  END  OF  THE  MATTER  371 

note  of  contempt.  "  His  is  quite  a  different  life  from 
anything  I  have  ever  looked  forward  to  at  Oxford  for 
myself.  I  don't  think  I  should  want  to  live  in  that  sort 
of  way  in  the  least." 

"  You  couldn't  help  it.  It  is  a  sort  of  vortex  into 
which  you  are  drawn.  Laurence  is  most  abominably 
extravagant — more  so  than  usual  with  young  men — I 
am  quite  aware.  I  don't  know  that  he  can  be  blamed 
for  it  under  the  circumstances — circumstances  which 
you  wouldn't  understand.  But  none  other  of  the  young 
men  I  have  met  live  any  other  sort  of  life.  None  of 
them  ever  seem  to  do  any  work.  How  they  ever  find 
time  to  take  degrees  and  wooden  spoons  and  things,  as 
I  saw  in  the  Senate  House  a  short  time  ago,  I  don't 
know.  And  I  suppose  it  is  as  at  Eton,  and  there  are 
collegers  who  do  the  work.  Pray  do  not  be  persuaded 
into  going  to  Oxford  or  Cambridge.  But  I  suppose  it 
is  hardly  for  you  to  decide.  Your  father  will  have  made 
up  his  mind.  I  cannot  understand  him,  with  his  views, 
countenancing  such  a  thing.  He  must  know.  He  was 
at  the  University  himself." 

"  He  certainly  didn't  live  the  life  there  that  Lau- 
rence describes,"  said  Richard.  "  But  as  a  matter  of 
fact  he  doesn't  want  me  to  go." 

"  Then,  how ,  who ?  " 

"  I  have  a  great  friend  at  Beechurst,"  Richard  ex- 
plained, "  who  is  very  anxious  for  me  to  go  to  Oxford, 
and  will  help  me  there." 

"Oh!     Who   is   it?" 

"  Mr.  Ventrey,  who  lives  at  Beechurst  Hall." 

"  Harry  Ventrey.  Of  course  I  know  him.  He  is  the 
queerest  of  men.  A  very  unsafe  guide,  I  should  think, 
for  a  young  man  to  follow.  But,  of  course,  he  is  enor- 
mously rich.  It  would  not  matter  to  him.  It  is  you  I 


372  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

am  thinking  of.  Surely  you  will  not  go  against  your 
father's  wishes!  What  does  he  wish  you  to  do?" 

"  A  bookseller  at  Storbridge,  someone  I  know  very 
well,  has  offered  me  a  partnership  in  his  business.  He  is 
very  enterprising,  and  no  doubt  it  would  be  a  good  thing 
for  me,  and  I  should  like  the  work." 

"  But,  my  dear  boy,  what  an  opportunity  to  think  of 
throwing  away !  That  charming  old-world  place !  To 
live  your  life  quietly  there  within  reach  of  all  this 
beauty,  to  have  no  anxieties,  no  connection  with  the 
tiresome  world  with  all  its  feverish  bustle  and  worry ! 
I  cannot  imagine  a  happier  lot.  To  have  to  do  with 
books,  the  most  delightful  and  soothing  of  companions, 
what  a  chance!  Pray,  pray,  do  not  throw  it  away." 

"  You  would  not  look  down  upon  me  if  I  started  life 
as  a  country  bookseller,  Aunt  Henrietta?  "  asked  Rich- 
ard, with  a  view  of  testing  further  the  curiosities  of  his 
aunt's  character. 

"  Look  down  on  you !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  How  can 
you  think  it?  I  should  look  up  to  you  as  a  wise  man 
who  knew  where  true  happiness  was  to  be  found  in  a 
peaceful  life  filled  with  quiet  duties  instead  of  a  per- 
petual round  of  gaiety  and  excitement,  which,  I  will 
warn  you  very  plainly,  brings  no  happiness  or  satisfac- 
tion with  it.  No,  indeed,  it  would  be  delightful  to  me 
to  think  of  you  settled  down  in  that  way.  I  should 
have  liked,  myself,  to  do  something  for  you,  something 
substantial  to  start  you  in  life.  But  I  cannot  do  every- 
thing I  should  like,  now.  Expenses  are  so  heavy  that 
— but  there,  I  need  not  go  into  that.  Something,  at 
any  rate,  I  probably  can  do.  I  will  talk  to  your 
father." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  Aunt  Henrietta,"  said  Rich- 
ard>  blushing,  "  but  I  would  rather  stand  on  my  own 


THE  END  OF  THE  MATTER  873 

feet.  All  I  want  is  an  opportunity  to  work,  and  that  I 
shall  have." 

She  looked  at  him  sharply.  "  You  do  not  mind  ac- 
cepting benefits  from  a  stranger,"  she  said,  "  but  you 
are  too  proud  to  be  beholden  to  your  own  mother's 
sister." 

"  Mr.  Ventrey  isn't  a  stranger,"  replied  Richard. 
"  And  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  I  am  going  to  accept 
the  benefits  he  offers  me.  If  I  take  up  the  other  work 
I  shall  depend  from  the  first  upon  my  own  energies." 

"  Something  will  have  to  be  paid,  I  suppose,  for  you 
to  enter  the  business  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  very  little.  The  half  of  it  has  already 
come  from  you,  Aunt  Henrietta." 

"  From  me?     How  is  that?  " 

"  You  were  very  generous  in  sending  me  presents 
when  I  was  a  child.  Father  has  saved  all  that  money 
for  me,  and  it  will  help  me  towards  my  start  in  life — 
if  I  take  to  the  bookselling." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  "  exclaimed  Lady  Syde.  "  Little 
driblets  of  money  that  I  had  entirely  forgotten!  And 
they  are  enough  to  do  that ! "  She  gave  a  prodigious 

sigh.  "  What  a  difference  between !  No,  I  mustn't 

say  it  here.  Well,  Richard,  I  shall  talk  to  your  father. 
You  are  my  godson.  I  must  be  allowed  to  do  something 
for  you.  I  wish  very  much  that  I  had  done  more  when 
the  opportunity  was  open  to  me.  One  learns  one's  mis- 
takes as  one  grows  older.  But  you  seem  to  have  done 
very  well  without  my  help.  Probably  I  should  have 
spoilt  you.  I  fear  that  indulgence  does  spoil.  It  cer- 
tainly does  not  call  forth  gratitude.  Now  I  will  rest  a 
little,  and  steep  myself  in  the  charm  of  this  lovely 
forest  of  yours." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  seat,  and  her  face  grew  tired. 


374  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

Richard  was  left  to  his  thoughts  as  they  drove  on 
through  the  forest  aisles,  and  they  took  him  back  to  the 
difficult  problem  he  had  to  face.  He  found  that  his 
mind  was  clearer  and  that  he  could  look  at  it  from  a 
different  point  of  view.  What,  after  all,  was  the  Uni- 
versity life  to  which  he  had  been  so  strangely  attracted  ? 
If  it  was  anything  like  the  picture  that  Laurence  had 
drawn  of  it,  there  was  nothing  to  attract  anybody 
who  regarded  it  as  an  opportunity  for  learning;  very 
little,  indeed,  that  was  attractive  of  it  was  only  to  be 
regarded  as  an  opportunity  for  social  intercourse. 
Richard's  ideas  of  the  work  he  would  do  at  Oxford 
were  far  more  imperfectly  formed  than  Mr.  Ventrey 
had  allowed  for,  but  his  ideas  of  the  social  life  of  col- 
lege and  University  were  clearly  formed,  and  had  noth- 
ing in  common  with  the  life  described  by  Laurence.  If 
it  was  really  like  that ! — but  he  knew  that  it  would  not 
be  in  his  case.  Still,  even  if  you  took  out  the  dining  and 
the  drinking,  the  extravagance  and  the  idleness,  was  it 
worth  while  to  spend  three  or  four  years  in  pleasurable 
intercourse  with  men  of  his  own  age  and  tastes  if  it 
meant  giving  up  the  instant  participation  in  activities 
which  he  knew  would  bring  him  interest  and  content- 
ment? His  association  with  men  of  stronger  views  and 
greater  experience  than  his  own  helped  him  to  weigh  the 
matter  carefully.  He  was  not  carried  away  by  his  own 
immediate  desires,  as  is  the  manner  of  youth.  But  he 
was  under  the  sway  of  impressions,  and  those  made  on 
him  by  what  Laurence  and  his  aunt,  and,  in  a  less  de- 
gree, by  what  Meaking  had  said,  influenced  him  more 
than  he  knew.  The  glamour  which  his  mind  had  thrown 
over  the  ordinary  life  of  the  undergraduate  had  been 
disturbed,  and  the  hold  of  Oxford  over  his  imagination 
was  weakened. 


3T5 

And  a  word  that  his  aunt  had  let  drop  raised  another 
train  of  thought.  He  would  have  definitely  refused  to 
accept  her  bounty  if  it  had  been  she  who  offered  him 
what  he  had  been  prepared  to  accept  from  Mr.  Ventrey. 
He  had  told  her  that  he  preferred  to  stand  on  his  own 
feet.  But  if  he  went  to  Oxford  he  would  not  be  doing 
so.  He  would  probably  not  even  be  able  to  stand  on 
his  own  feet  without  further  help  when  he  had  done  with 
the  University.  Surely  his  inclinations  led  him  to  ac- 
cept patronage  from  no  one — not  even  from  a  friend 
to  whom  he  would  always  owe  the  unpayable  debt  of 
gratitude  and  affection — if  he  could  do  without  it. 
And  there  was  no  doubt  that  in  this  instance  he  could. 

In  the  mysterious  workings  of  the  human  mind  this 
phenomenon  is  apparent,  that  alongside  of  a  course 
of  inward  controversy,  where  hesitancy  reigns  over  a 
decision  that  has  to  be  taken,  when  the  mind  needlessly 
tosses  to  and  fro  opposing  arguments,  and  is  convinced 
by  none,  there  has  been  going  on  all  the  time  another 
silent  controversy.  And,  suddenly,  the  active,  conscious, 
indecisive  train  of  argument  is  cut  across  by  a  clear 
conviction.  The  tried  victim  of  doubt  wakes  to  find 
the  matter  settled  for  him,  and  his  whole  apparatus 
of  arguments,  of  statement  and  counter-statement,  can 
be  thrown  from  him.  His  soul  has  spoken,  and  his 
mind  has  nothing  to  do  but  to  acquiesce.  So  it  is  with 
those  who  honestly  change  their  religious  attitude.  So 
it  was  with  Richard  over  this  smaller  problem.  By  the 
time  the  carriage  had  reached  Beechurst  his  outlook  was 
clear  before  him.  He  would  take  Meaking's  offer  and 
set  to  work  at  once. 

Lady  Syde  roused  herself  as  the  carriage  drove  in  at 
the  gate  of  the  Vicarage  and  up  the  shady  drive.  "  Oh, 
this  enchanting  spot !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  How  it  all 


376  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

comes  back  to  me! — the  beautiful  old  house  and  the 
great  trees !  That  was  the  window  of  the  room  in  which 
she  died — nearly  twenty  years  ago.  It  is  sad  to  think 
how  one  changes,  here,  where  so  little  is  changed." 

Old  Job  Wilding  was  sweeping  the  gravel  in  front 
of  the  doorway  as  they  drove  up.  He  drew  up  his  bent 
figure  and  looked  in  surprise  at  the  invasion. 

"  Why,  I  declare ! "  said  Lady  Syde,  in  a  brighter 
tone,  "  there  is  my  old  friend  Job,  looking  the  same 
as  ever.  Well,  Job,  how  do  you  do?  " 

A  sly  look  came  over  Job's  face  as  he  recognized  her. 
"  I  couldn't  make  a  change  under  a  month's  notice,"  he 
said,  cryptically. 

"  A  month's  notice ! "  echoed  Lady  Syde,  as  she 
alighted  from  the  carriage.  "  Why,  Job,  you  are  surely 
not  thinking  of  leaving  your  present  master?  " 

"  I  reached  the  ripe  age  of  seventy  year  twelve  months 
ago  come  Michaelmas,"  returned  Job,  "  and  it's  been  in 
my  mind  to  better  myself.  Twenty  years  I've  been  con- 
sidering of  it,  owing  to  a  hearty  hint  received.  An' 
now  I'm  to  be  taken  off  by  a  fiery  chariot,  same  as 
Elijah.  But  I  can't  give  less  than  a  month's  notice." 
And  he  turned  his  back  and  went  off  chuckling. 

"  Queer  old  creature !  "  said  Lady  Syde.  "  But  is  he 
really  thinking  of  leaving?  If  so,  I  might  be  able 
to " 

"  I  don't  think  he  has  the  least  intention  of  leav- 
ing," said  Richard.  "  Will  you  come  into  the  drawing- 
room,  Aunt  Henrietta;  and  I  will  go  and  tell  father 
you  are  here?  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  he  will  be  in." 

They  went  into  the  drawing-room,  now  entirely  dis- 
used. Richard  unfastened  the  shutters,  and  let  in  the 
light  on  its  faded  emptiness. 

"  What  a  sweet,  quiet  old  room,"  said  Lady  Syde. 


THE  END  OF  THE  MATTER          577 

"  How  charming  one  might  make  it !  One  would  clear 
out  all  this  terrible  modern  furniture  and  fill  it  with 
beautiful  old  things.  The  framework  of  the  room  is 
perfect.  One  can  only  be  thankful  that  it  has  escaped 
desecration.  Leave  me  here,  Richard,  and  ask  your 
father  to  come  to  me." 

Richard  found  his  father  about  to  set  out  on  his 
parish  visits. 

"  Aunt  Henrietta  is  in  the  drawing-room,  and  wants 
to  see  you,"  he  said. 

"  Who !  "   cried   John   Baldock,   in   amazement. 

"  Aunt  Henrietta.  I  met  her  in  Storbridge  and  she 
drove  here  with  me." 

The  Vicar  put  down  his  Bible  and  the  bundle  of  tracts 
he  was  carrying,  and  left  the  room. 

"Henrietta!"  he  exclaimed  to  himself,  as  he  went 
up  the  stairs  and  along  the  passage  leading  to  the 
drawing-room.  "  What  can  she  want  here?  " 

She  wanted  apparently  more  than  he  was  prepared 
to  give  her,  as  he  found  when  he  had  entered  the  room 
in  which  she  was  sitting  by  the  window,  and  shut  the 
door  behind  him.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  as  if 
no  antagonism  had  ever  existed  between  them,  and 
said : — 

"  Ah,  John.  It  is  years  since  we  met,  and  perhaps 
we  were  not  always  the  best  of  friends,  but  there  is  no 
need  to  remember  that  now." 

John  Baldock  ignored  the  outstretched  hand. 

"  I  should  find  it  impossible  to  forget  it,"  he  said, 
with  a  dark  look.  "  I  came  to  your  house  five  years 
ago,  and  was  flouted  and  jeered  at.  I  should  have  been 
turned  out  with  ignominy  if  it  had  not  been  my  own 
pleasure  to  depart.  You  come  now  into  my  house,  and 
expect  me  to  welcome  you.  I  cannot  do  it." 


378  RICHARD  BALDOC1C 

"  Now,  my  dear  John,"  she  replied  with  her  old  de- 
cisive intonation.  "  How  senseless  it  is  to  bring  up  old, 
forgotten,  and,  no  doubt  at  the  time,  unpleasant  scenes. 
As  the  worldly  woman  you  no  doubt  think  me,  I  have 
forgotten  them  long  since.  Surely  you,  as  a  clergy- 
man, can  hardly  do  less.  Why  brood  on  the  past?  " 

"  I  do  not  brood  on  it.  But  I  will  not  pretend  that 
I  am  pleased  to  see  you,  remembering  as  I  do  not  only 
the  painful  scene  to  which  I  refer,  but  what  led  up 
to  it." 

"  Now,  what  did  lead  up  to  it?  Tell  me,  for  good- 
ness' sake,  and  then  let  us  make  friends." 

"  You  talk  glibly  of  making  friends.  Have  you  for- 
gotten how  you  turned  my  son  out  of  your  house  at 
a  moment's  notice,  most  unjustly,  and,  after  having 
promised  definitely  to  provide  for  his  education,  and  in 
a  general  way  to  do  far  more  than  that  for  him,  went 
back  upon  all  your  promises,  and  have  shown  no  sign 
of  interest  in  him  from  that  day  to  this." 

"  Did  I  do  such  dreadful  things  as  that?  " 

"  You  know  very  well  you  did.  You  had  bestowed 
your  favours  elsewhere,  and  cast  him  off  without  a  mo- 
ment's compunction.  I  only  hope  that  you  are  satisfied 
with  the  result  of  your  choice." 

"  No,  my  dear  John.  You  do  not  hope  that.  You 
hope  that  I  have  been  thoroughly  well  served  out.  I 
fear  I  cannot  oblige  you  with  the  information  you  wish. 
I  have  the  best  of  husbands  and  am  a  very  happy 
woman."  She  turned  her  head  away  towards  the  win- 
dow for  a  moment.  "  But  granted  that  your  version  of 
what  occurred  is  the  right  one,  which  I  do  not  grant, 
mind  you,"  she  said.  "  Supposing,  rather,  that  I  admit 
I  am  apt  to  let  my  impulses  run  away  with  me  and 
arouse  hopes  that  I  do  not  always  thoroughly  fulfil, 


THE  END  OF  THE  MATTER  379 

will  you  say  that  Richard  has  suffered  by  my  action? 
Do  you  not  think  that  he  is  growing  up  here  under  your 
own  care  to  be  a  better  man  than  he  would  be  if  I  had 
showered  money  and  presents  on  him,  and  he  had  learnt 
to  be  extravagant  and  selfish  and  ungrateful?" 

"Thank  God,"  said  John  Baldock,  "that  he  was 
spared  that." 

"  Quite  so.  But  he  would  not  have  been  spared  it,  I 
am  afraid,  if  I  had  made  a  protege  of  him.  As  it  is  he 
is  a  young  man  whom  any  father  would  have  the  right 
to  be  thoroughly  proud  of.  I  admire  him  immensely. 
I  am  more  pleased  with  him  than  I  can  say.  He  is  a 
true  gentleman.  Honest,  fearless,  courteous,  and 
strong.  7  could  not  have  brought  him  up  to  be  that, 
John.  I  admit  it  in  sorrow.  If  I  had  taken  a  fancy 
to  him  five  years  ago,  was  it? — as  I  wish  for  my  own 
sake  I  had  done — I  should  have  given  him  everything 
I  thought  he  could  want  to  make  him  happy,  and  he 
would  have  grown  up  with  no  thought  but  to  get  more. 
He  would  not  have  cared  for  me  one  jot,  nor  for  you 
nor  for  any  one  but  himself.  I  think  you  ought  to 
thank  me  for  saving  him  from  that,  and  not  overwhelm 
me  with  reproaches  when  I  only  come  to  you  for  an 
hour's  peace,  and  to  indulge  a  few  sad  but  not  unhappy 
memories,  before  I  go  away  again  into  the  crowded 
noisy  world  in  which  I  live." 

John  Baldock  was  vanquished,  not  so  much  by  her 
words  as  by  the  note  of  appeal  on  which  she  ended. 

"  God  knows,"  he  said,  "  that  I  would  not  willingly 
cherish  animosity.  The  past  is  over  and  done  with, 
and  perhaps  you  are  right  in  saying  that  Richard  has 
not  suffered  by  the  injustice  with  which  you  undoubt- 
edly treated  him.  I  will  say  no  more.  What  poor  hos- 
pitality I  can  offer  you,  you  are  welcome  to," 


380  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

He  sat  down  opposite  to  her. 

"  Thank  you,  John.  I  can  only  stay  an  hour.  I 
should  like  to  go  up  and  see  the  room  in  which  dear 
Jessica  died,  and  I  should  like  Richard  to  take  me  to 
her  grave.  Her  memory  is  still  green  with  me,  as  I 
am  sure  it  is  with  you.  But,  first  of  all,  I  want  to 
have  a  word  with  you  about  Richard.  I  will  not  rouse 
your  suspicions  again  by  undertaking  great  things  on 
his  behalf.  It  might  not  now  be  in  my  power  to  carry 
them  out.  At  the  same  time  I  am  not  going  away 
without  making  him  a  present.  At  least,  directly  I  get 
back  to  the  yacht  I  shall  send  you  a  cheque  for  a  hun- 
dred pounds  for  him.  I  should  like  to  send  more,  but 
at  the  present  time  I  really  cannot  afford  it." 

"Thank  you,  Henrietta,"  John  Baldock  said.  "I 
want  no  presents,  either  for  myself  or  for  him." 

"  I  am  not  proposing  to  give  you  a  present.  Richard 
is  my  godson,  and  nothing  can  prevent  me  giving  him 
one  if  I  choose  to  do  so.  He  has  told  me  how  care- 
fully you  have  preserved  the  odds  and  ends  of  money 
I  sent  him  years  ago,  and  that  it  may  now  be  turned 
to  good  use.  You  must  not  deny  me  the  pleasure  of 
adding  to  the  little  store.  It  is  small  enough,  I  am 
ashamed  to  say;  hardly  more  than  my — than  many 
young  men  would  throw  away  in  a  day's  amusement ; 
but  I  understand  that  in  his  case  it  may  be  of  real 
service." 

John  Baldock's  face  became  eager. 

"  Has  he  told  you  that?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes.  He  has  told  me  of  the  quiet,  contented,  un- 
eventful life  that  he  is  thinking  of  leading  in  that  de- 
lightful old  town  where  I  met  him.  It  is  very  gratifying 
to  me  to  think  that  the  small  sums  of  money  I  sent  you 
for  him  years  ago  will  help  towards  his  settlement,  and 


THE  END  OF  THE  MATTER  381 

if  this  hundred  pounds  makes  it  still  easier,  I  am  thank- 
ful for  it." 

"  Then  he  has  made  up  his  mind.  He  will  tell  me 
so.  I,  too,  am  profoundly  thankful.  There  are  those 
who  are  trying  to  tempt  him  away  from  my  influence, 
and  to " 

"  You  mean  Harry  Ventrey.  I  should  hardly  think 
he  can  be  trying  to  do  that.  It  is  not  in  his  line.  To 
be  thoroughly  satisfied  with  his  cook  and  get  some- 
body to  listen  to  him  talking  is  all  he  wants  to  make 
him  thoroughly  happy.  But  Richard  did  tell  me  that 
he  was  going  to  send  him  to  Oxford.  I  hope  he  will  not 
do  so,  because  I  do  not  think  that  the  University  is  a 
good  place  to  send  a  boy  to." 

"  But  I  understood  you  to  say  that  Richard  had 
made  up  his  mind  not  to  accept  his  offer." 

"  I  don't  know.  You  must  talk  to  him  about  it  your- 
self. At  any  rate,  there  is  the  hundred  pounds  at  his 

service,  and  if  I  hear But  no,  I  will  make  no 

further  promises.  Now  let  me  go  upstairs,  and  perhaps 
you  will  let  me  have  a  cup  of  tea  before  I  set  off  again." 

Lady  Syde  carried  out  her  programme,  and  drove 
away  an  hour  later,  expressing  herself  as  soothed  in 
spirit  by  her  visit.  She  left  behind  her  a  far  more 
pleasant  impression  than  she  had  created  on  the  jocca- 
sion  of  her  former  visits,  and  even  old  Sarah,  softened 
by  the  gift  of  a  golden  coin,  allowed  herself  to  indulge 
hopes  for  her  future  salvation. 

"  Now  you  must  write  to  me  and  tell  me  all  that 
you  are  doing,"  she  said  to  Richard,  as  he  helped  her 
into  the  carriage.  "  And  I  hope  it  will  not  be  very 
long  before  we  meet  again." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear  boy,"   said   the   Squire,  when 


382  .RICHARD  BALDOCK 

Richard  informed  him  of  his  final  decision.  "  I  think 
you  are  making  a  mistake,  but  your  life  is  your  own 
to  make  what  you  can  of  it.  I  will  adapt  myself  as 
quickly  as  my  time  of  life  permits  to  the  new  conditions, 
and  shall  no  doubt  have  a  great  deal  of  advice  to  offer 
you  as  to  the  best  way  of  selling  books.  For  we  shall 
see  each  other,  I  hope,  as  frequently  as  ever." 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

TEN  YEARS  LATER 

IN  one  of  the  streets  about  Covent  Garden,  now  much 
in  favour  with  publishers  of  books  and  weekly  and 
monthly  periodicals,  the  wayfarer  may  come  across 
a  ground-floor  window  filled  with  an  attractive  dis- 
play of  books,  large  and  small,  but  all  of  them  bearing 
the  appearance  which  would  be  most  likely  to  tempt 
the  book  buyer.  The  inscription  on  the  window  and 
on  the  brass  plate  of  the  big  swing  doors  which  give 
access  into  the  building  is  "  Meaking  and  Baldock," 
and  this  name  also  appears  on  the  covers  of  the  books 
in  the  window. 

In  a  first-floor  room,  at  the  back  of  the  house,  Rich- 
ard Baldock  was  sitting  at  a  writing-table  one  evening 
of  late  spring  some  ten  years  after  the  events  related 
in  the  preceding  chapters.  He  was  altered  in  appear- 
ance only  so  much  as  a  boy  on  the  threshold  of  manhood 
alters  in  ten  years  of  a  somewhat  strenuous  life.  His 
fair  hair  still  curled  over  his  forehead,  and  his  blue 
eyes  were  honest  and  clear.  His  face  had  lost  the 
brown  freckled  tint  of  his  boyhood,  its  lines  were 
stronger,  and  it  bore  the  index  of  ten  years  of  absorb- 
ing work.  But  any  of  his  early  friends  would  have 
recognized  him  without  difficulty,  even  if  they  had  not 
seen  him  during  those  ten  years,  and,  recognizing  him, 
would  have  expected  the  years  to  roll  away  when  once 
they  heard  his  voice. 

383 


384  RICHARD  BALBOCK 

It  was  six  o'clock,  and  Richard  was  finishing  up  his 
work  for  the  day,  when  the  door  opened  and  his  partner 
came  in.  John  Montague  Meaking,  for  he  had  now  re- 
asserted his  right  to  the  name  by  which  he  had  been 
called  in  his  childhood,  had  not  altered  in  the  least  either 
in  face  or  figure,  but  in  outward  appearance  he  had 
altered  immensely.  His  flaming  red  hair  still  shone  con- 
spicuously, but  it  had  been  brushed  and  oiled  with 
neatness  and  did  its  shining  under  a  silk  hat  which 
vied  only  with  his  patent  leather  boots  in  point  of  polish. 
The  rest  of  his  habiliments  were  in  keeping  with  the 
splendour  of  his  boots  and  hat,  and  he  looked  the  pic- 
ture of  prosperity,  which  was  exactly  the  impression  he 
sought  to  convey.  This  change  had  come  about  sud- 
denly when  the  firm  had  moved  to  London  some  four  or 
five  years  before,  and  Meaking  had  blossomed  like  a 
butterfly  from  his  chrysalis  state  of  easy,  somewhat 
shabby  country  clothes  into  the  rigorous  but  noticeable 
habit  which  he  now  wore.  "  It's  policy,"  he  had  said  at 
the  time.  "  Dress  like  a  man  of  means  and  you'll  be 
taken  for  a  man  of  means.  That  helps  credit,  and, 
though  we  don't  want  credit  just  at  present,  there's  no 
telling  when  we  may.  You'd  better  do  the  same,  Dick. 
We  can't  help  being  young,  but  we  can  help  being  unim- 
portant." 

But  Richard  had  lacked  the  inclination  to  gain  im- 
portance by  the  conspicuousness  of  his  attire.  He  wore 
a  black  coat  and  a  tall  hat,  and  he  looked  like  a  gentle- 
man. But  he  looked  like  a  gentleman  who  worked. 

Meaking  threw  himself  into  the  easy  chair  which 
stood  by  Richard's  desk.  "  That's  a  good  day's  work 
done,"  he  said.  "  You  nearly  finished,  Dick?  'Cos  if  so 
we'll  be  off.  We've  got  half  an  hour  to  get  to  the 
station  in,  and  it  takes  pretty  nearly  that." 


TEN  YEARS  LATER  385 

"  I'm  ready  now,"  said  Richard,  locking  up  the 
drawer  of  his  writing-table.  "  What  a  nuisance  it  must 
be  having  to  go  all  the  way  to  and  from  your  station 
twice  a  day." 

"  It  is  a  nuisance.  But  it's  the  only  line  that  gets 
you  out  to  the  Forest.  I  wouldn't  live  anywhere  else 
out  of  London.  It  isn't  as  good  as  our  old  forest,  but 
it's  pleasant  enough,  especially  at  this  time  of  the 
year." 

"  Yes,  it  is  pleasant.  I  should  like  to  come  and  live 
there  too  if  it  weren't  for  my  father." 

"  It  wouldn't  be  a  good  thing  for  you.  My  work's 
finished  when  I've  left  the  office.  It  doesn't  matter 
where  I  live.  You've  got  to  make  a  point  of  meeting 
people.  Don't  go  forgetting  that.  You  ought  to  have 
been  at  that  Hafiz  Club  dinner  to-night,  by  rights." 

"  I'd  rather  come  and  look  at  your  garden  and  have  a 
stroll  amongst  the  trees.  Come  along.  I'm  ready 
now." 

They  went  out  through  the  busy  outer  office  in  which 
Meaking  lingered  a  moment  to  give  one  or  two  authori- 
tative orders.  Then  they  made  their  way  to  the  City 
terminus  and  out  to  the  woodland  suburb  where  Mea- 
king resided. 

Meaking's  residence  was  a  detached  villa  at  the  end 
of  a  new  road,  about  half  a  mile  from  the  station,  and 
would  have  presented  no  point  of  attraction  to  the 
aesthetic,  either  outside  or  in.  But  it  stood  in  a  garden 
of  half  an  acre,  well  shaded  by  trees,  and  there  was 
nothing1  between  it  and  the  Forest  but  a  few  fields.  "  I 
shall  live  here  for  the  seven  years  of  my  lease,"  Meaking 
had  said  when  he  first  took  it,  "  and  then  I  shall  buy 
some  land  and  build  a  house  for  myself.  That  is  if  we 
do  as  well  as  I  think  we  shall," 


386  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

Five  years  of  Meaking's  lease  were  up,  and  they 
were  doing  at  least  as  well  as  he  had  anticipated. 
He  was  already  spending  his  leisure  time  in  a  tour 
of  inspection,  and  the  acreage  he  had  proposed  to 
himself  as  the  setting  of  his  house  had  risen  from  three 
to  twenty. 

Mrs.  Meaking,  now  in  a  blissful  state  of  self- 
confidence  as  to  her  position  in  life,  received  them  in 
her  drawing-room,  and  played  the  well-to-do  lady  of 
the  house  to  perfection.  No  one  would  have  recog- 
nized her  as  the  village  matron  with  whom  her 
neighbours  had  kept  up  a  continuous  guerrilla  war- 
fare with  the  object  of  reducing  her  proud  spirit 
twenty  years  before.  Probably  her  sole  cause  for 
regret  in  her  present  situation  was  that  it  could  not 
be  beheld  by  those  who  had  flouted  her  in  the  days  of 
her  poverty;  but  there  was  not  one  of  her  Beechurst 
acquaintances  whom  she  would  now  have  thought  a 
fit  and  proper  person  to  receive  into  her  house.  She 
would  have  liked  them  to  know  this,  but  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  devising  a  way  by  which  the  knowledge  could 
be  conveyed  to  them. 

They  dined  well.  Mrs.  Meaking,  for  all  her  nonsense, 
was  an  excellent  housekeeper.  And  as  they  dined  they 
talked  about  old  days  at  Beechurst. 

**  I  think  I  shall  have  to  run  down  to  Storbridge  next 
week,"  Meaking  said.  "  Fisher  is  a  good  man  to  have 
in  charge,  but  I'm  not  quite  satisfied  with  the  way  he 
is  running  the  second-hand  department." 

"  That  was  bound  to  go  down  after  Mr.  Gannett's 
death,"  said  Richard.  "  There  wasn't  his  equal  at  it  in 
England." 

"  Who  would  have  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Meaking,  with 
the  most  genteel  air,  "  that  that  old  bag  of  bones, 


TEN  YEARS  LATER  387 

if  I  may  be  allowed  the  expression,  would  have  gone  on 
living  until  he  was  eighty?  There  was  hardly  any- 
thing of  him  left  by  the  time  he  died." 

"  Except  brains,"  said  Richard. 

"  Brains  and  money,"  corrected  Mrs.  Meaking. 
"  But  the  money  I  attribute  to  you,  Montague.  Be- 
fore you  joined  him,  Mr.  Gannett  would  certainly  not 
have  left  three  thousand  pounds." 

"  He  spent  nothing  on  himself,"  said  Meaking. 
"  Hardly  as  much  as  a  labourer.  He  was  a  close  old 
file.  Of  course  I  did  help  him  to  turn  his  knowledge 
to  advantage.  But  he  never  let  on  that  he  knew  it. 
Never  a  word  all  the  years  we  worked  together." 

"  He  acknowledged  it  pretty  handsomely  when  he 
died,"  said  Richard. 

"  Yes.  I  don't  suppose  there's  another  case  of  an 
endowed  bookshop  in  England,  or  anywhere  else.  It 
came  in  handy  for  us.  There  are  plenty  of  good 
scholars  who  would  like  to  have  Fisher's  place.  But 
he's  like  Mr.  Gannett.  He  thinks  more  of  the  books 
than  the  trade.  I  shall  have  to  go  down  and  wake  him 
up  every  now  and  then.  Would  you  like  to  come  down 
with  me  next  week,  mother,  and  look  up  the  old  places? 
We  could  stay  the  night  and  go  over  to  Beechurst  on 
our  way  back." 

"  No,  thank  you,  Montague,"  said  Mrs.  Meaking, 
with  pursed  lips.  "  I  have  very  few  pleasant  recollec- 
tions of  Beechurst.  The  people  there  are  a  set  of  sav- 
ages, and  would  only  be  impertinent  if  I  ventured  among 
them  again.  They  have  not  the  slightest  idea  how  to 
treat  a  lady.  If  I  had  them  here  I  should  know  how 
to  deal  with  them,  but  go  amongst  them  I  will  not." 

"  I  shall  go  over,"  said  Meaking.  "  I  haven't  been 
to  Beechurst  for  five  years.  It'll  do  me  all  the  good  in 


388  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

the  world  to  see  a  bit  of  the  forest  again  and  visit  the 
old  haunts.  Do  you  remember  that  gap  in  the  fence  of 
the  Vicarage  garden,  Dick,  by  the  syringa  bush?  " 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Richard.  "But  I  thought  that 
was  my  own  secret.  I  didn't  know  you  shared  it." 

"  Of  course  I  did.  That's  how  I  used  to  get  in, 
though  I  never  told  you  so.  It  seems  like  yesterday 
when  we  used  to  go  prowling  about  the  shrubbery,  play- 
ing at  Red  Indians.  What  a  place  it  is !  None  like  it. 
I'll  go  back  and  end  my  days  there,  as  I  began  them. 
Don't  you  feel  the  same  about  it,  Dick?  " 

**  I  do  in  a  way.  But  it  has  altered  so  that  I  don't 
feel  that  I  want  to  go  back  just  yet  awhile." 

"  Altered !  It  hasn't  altered  in  the  least.  There's 
not  been  a  new  building  put  up  since  you  or  I  can 
remember,  and  none  pulled  down  as  far  as  I  know." 

"  The  people  have  altered.  It  must  be  quite  a  dif- 
ferent place  now  ?  " 

"When  were  you  last  there?" 

"  Four  years  ago,  when  Mr.  Ventrey  died." 

"  Ah,  of  course  you'd  miss  him.  He  was  a  good  friend 
to  you." 

"  He  was  one  of  the  best  I've  ever  had." 

"  A  real  gentleman,"  put  in  Mrs.  Meaking.  "  Al- 
ways a  courteous  word  for  everybody,  and  knew  how  to 
treat  a  lady  like  a  lady.  It  was  a  sad  end,  Mr. 
Richard." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  He  was  never  conscious  after 
his  stroke,  and  died  quite  quietly.  He  lived  his  life 
fully  up  to  the  end.  Nobody  would  have  hated  more 
than  he  to  live  on  with  impaired  powers,  although  he  had 
such  extraordinary  strength  of  mind  that  he  would 
have  made  the  best  of  what  was  left  to  him  as  he  had 
done  before.  I  am  glad  I  was  with  him  at  the  last,  but 


TEN  YEARS  LATER  389 

I  wish  he  had  been  able  to  recognize  me,  and  give  me 
a  word." 

"  You  saw  him  not  long  before,  didn't  you?  " 

"  Yes.  A  fortnight  before.  I  was  there  for  the  week- 
end. It  is  one  of  the  pleasantest  recollections  I  have 
of  Beechurst.  Everything  was  just  as  it  had  been  ex- 
cept at  the  Vicarage,  but  I  was  so  taken  up  with  Mr. 
Ventrey  and — and  with  his  little  granddaughter,  that  I 
didn't  mind  that  so  much.  He  was  as  brilliant  as  ever, 
quite  like  a  young,  active  man,  although  he  was  well 
over  seventy,  and,  of  course,  quite  helpless  physically. 
I  never  really  understood  until  then  how  he  stood  out 
from  other  men — at  least  any  other  man  I  have  ever 
known.  His  talk  was  wonderful  to  listen  to,  and  his 
friendliness  and  gaiety  were  beyond  description." 

"  He  had  quite  forgiven  you  by  that  time  for  taking 
on  with  me,  hadn't  he?"  asked  Meaking. 

"  He  had  never  said  a  word  except  of  encouragement 
after  I  first  told  him  that  I  meant  to  do  so.  But  I 
think  he  finally  realized  that  I  had  been  right  in  my 
decision.  I  think  he  did.  He  said  to  me :  *  Well,  you're 
making  a  great  success  of  your  work,  and  it's  bringing 
you  into  touch  with  the  most  intelligent  of  people.  I 
should  think  you  must  be  enjoying  the  best  society  to  be 
found  in  London.  I,  at  any  rate,  think  that  the  society 
of  men  of  letters  is  the  best.'  I  remember  his  words 
so  well  because  they  gave  me  great  pleasure  at  the 
time." 

"  Did  he  say  anything  about  your  not  having  gone  to 
Oxford  when  he  wanted  you  to?  " 

"  Not  in  so  many  words.  But  he  did  say  that  most 
young  men  of  my  age — I  was  twenty-four  then — were 
preparing  to  do  something,  but  that  I  was  doing  it.  I 
know  he  was  pleased  and  interested  in  all  I  told  him, 


390  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

and  I  think  he  must  have  seen  that  I  shouldn't  have 
been  so  well  off  in  any  way  if  I  had  taken  his  advice." 

"And  you  don't  regret  it  in  any  way?" 

"  I  have  no  reason  to.  Of  course,  I  should  like  to 
have  gone  to  Oxford.  I  wish  I  had  been  there.  But 
the  choice  lay  between  that  and  this,  and  I  am  sure  I 
acted  wisely.  No,  I  don't  regret  it." 

"  Have  you  seen  Miss  Ventrey  since  then  ?  "  inquired 
Mrs.  Meaking.  "  She  must  be  grown  up  now." 

"  No.  She  went  to  her  aunt,  Lady  Pontypridd,  when 
her  grandfather  died,  and  Lady  Pontypridd  has  no 
great  opinion  of  me.  In  fact  she  gave  me  to  understand, 
when  she  was  at  Beechurst  at  the  time  of  the  Squire's 
death,  that  a  provincial  tradesman  was  no  fit  companion 
for  her  niece,  and  the  less  I  saw  of  her  for  the  future 
the  better  she  would  be  pleased." 

"  But  you  were  a  London  publisher  by  that  time." 

"  Yes.  But  she  didn't  know  it,  and  I  didn't  enlighten 
her.  I  don't  see  that  it  makes  much  difference.  It 
didn't  with  Mr.  Ventrey  and  it  didn't  with  Lettice.  I 
know  she  would  always  be  glad  to  see  me,  whatever  I 
was.  But  they  went  abroad  directly  after  Mr.  Ventrey 
died,  and,  as  far  as  I  know,  they  have  been  abroad  ever 
since." 

"  They  are  in  London  now,"  said  Mrs.  Meaking,  with 
the  air  of  one  to  whom  the  movements  of  the  aristocracy 
are  no  secret.  "  The  Dowager  Countess  of  Pontypridd 
has  taken  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Pell's  house  in  Curzon 
Street,  and  presented  her  niece,  Miss  Lettice  Ventrey,  at 
Court  last  week." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Richard. 

"  Mother  keeps  up  with  these  things,"  said  Meaking. 
"  You  can't  tell  her  anything  about  lords  and  ladies 
that  she  don't  know." 


391 

-I  don't  know  everything,  Montague,"  said  Mrs. 
Meaking,  modestly.  "  It  isn't  to  be  expected,  in  my 
position,  that  I  should." 

"  I  think  I  shall  brave  Lady  Pontypridd's  scorn  and 
go  and  call  in  Curzon  Street,"  said  Richard.  "  Lettice 
and  I  were  such  great  friends  when  she  was  a  child  that 
I  am  sure  she  will  give  me  a  welcome." 

"  She  is  a  great  heiress,"  said  Mrs.  Meaking.  "  Com- 
ing in  for  all  Mr.  Ventrey's  money,  I  expect  she  will  be 
much  sought  after." 

"  Mr.  Ventrey  wasn't  as  rich  as  people  thought," 
said  Meaking.  "  He  left  short  of  seventy  thousand 
pounds." 

"  That's  not  a  very  small  sum,"  said  Richard. 

"  No.  But  he  was  always  thought  to  be  a  mil- 
lionaire." 

"  There  is  Beechurst  Hall,"  said  Mrs.  Meaking. 
"  She  gets  that  too." 

"  Yes.  But  the  property  doesn't  bring  in  anything. 
She'd  hardly  have  enough  to  live  there  in  the  way  people 
live  now." 

"  I  don't  think  Lettice  would  want  to  live  very  ex- 
travagantly," said  Richard,  "  unless  she  has  entirely 
changed.  She  always  liked  best  to  be  out  of  doors. 
What  happy  times  we  used  to  have  together  in  the  for- 
est. I  think  she  loved  it  as  much  as  any  of  us,  and 
knew  as  much  about  it." 

"  It  is  not  likely  that  she  will  live  alone  at  Beechurst 
Hall,"  said  Mrs.  Meaking,  authoritatively.  "  The 
Countess  of  Pontypridd  will  probably  be  with  her  until 
she  marries,  and  I  should  think  it  will  not  be  long  before 
that  happens  with  her  advantages." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  said  Richard,  regretfully.  "  But  it 
is  difficult  to  think  of  little  Lettice  married." 


392  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  I  wonder  you  have  not  been  to  Beechurst  Hall  to 
stay  with  your  aunt,  Mr.  Richard,"  said  Mrs.  Meaking. 
"  It  was  curious  that  she  should  take  the  place,  having 
the  connection  with  it  that  she  did." 

Richard  made  no  reply.  The  memory  of  his  aunt  was 
an  uncomfortable  one  to  him.  She  had  sent  her  prom- 
ised cheque  for  a  hundred  pounds  to  his  father  on  the 
evening  after  her  visit  to  Beechurst,  and  had  written  at 
the  same  time  to  Richard  himself  in  an  affectionate 
manner,  and  asked  him  to  write  to  her  frequently.  He 
had  written  her  two  letters,  without  receiving  a  reply  to 
either,  and  he  had  heard  nothing  more  of  her  until,  on 
Mr.  Ventrey's  death,  she  and  Sir  Franklin  had  taken 
Beechurst  Hall  on  a  term  of  years,  and  gone  to  reside 
there,  Paradine  Park  having  been  sold  and  Sir  Frank- 
lin's place  in  Yorkshire  let.  He  could  only  suppose  that 
Laurence  had  given  her  a  garbled  account  of  their 
quarrel  which  she  had  believed,  and  that  she  had  once 
more  determined  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  him. 
He  thought  of  her  with  pity,  not  unmixed  with  con- 
tempt. What  kind  of  a  woman  must  she  be,  so  swayed 
by  the  impulses  of  the  moment,  and  so  ready  to  believe 
evil  on  the  mere  word  of  those  whom  she  must  know  not 
to  be  entirely  trustworthy  or  free  from  self-interest? 
He  could  not  lose  much  by  the  withdrawal  of  her  affec- 
tion, but  she  had  been  kind  to  him  on  that  afternoon  at 
Beechurst,  had  told  him  of  his  mother  whom  his  father 
never  mentioned  to  him,  and  had  been  undoubtedly 
drawn  to  him.  He  could  not  think  of  their  estrangement 
altogether  without  regret,  although  he  was  too  proud 
to  try  to  remove  it. 

"  And  how  is  your  father,  Mr.  Richard?  "  inquired 
Mrs.  Meaking.  "  I  ought  to  have  asked  after  him 
before." 


TEN  YEARS  LATER  393 

"  He  is  very  well,  thank  you,"  replied  Richard. 
"  Full  of  work,  of  course.  But  that  suits  him." 

"  Stroud  End  must  be  a  very  different  parish  from 
Beechurst.  The  society  there  is  very  second  rate,  is  it 
not?" 

Richard  laughed.  "  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "  The 
question  doesn't  trouble  my  father  much.  I  am  sure  he 
is  happier  working  among  all  that  crowd  of  people 
than  he  was  at  Beechurst,  where  there  was  little  for  a 
man  of  his  energy  to  occupy  himself  with.  The  ex- 
change came  as  rather  a  surprise  at  the  time.  I  had 
no  idea  he  was  thinking  of  it.  But  it  has  turned  out 
well." 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  think  he  made  the  exchange  ?  " 
said  Meaking. 

"  There  isn't  much  doubt  about  it,"  replied  Richard. 
"  Mr.  Coles  was  a  college  friend  of  his,  and  had  worn 
himself  out  working  at  Stroud  End.  When  they  met, 
after  many  years,  they  talked  things  over,  and  my 
father  thought  that  as  he  was  strong  and  well  he  ought 
to  go  into  a  parish  where  there  was  hard,  uphill  work 
to  do,  and  let  Mr.  Coles  have  a  rest.  That  is  why  they 
exchanged." 

"  I  don't  believe  that  was  the  only  reason.  I  believe 
he  couldn't  stand  being  parted  from  you.  You  were 
going  up  to  London  at  the  time,  and  I  believe  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  go,  too." 

Richard's  face  grew  softer.  "  I  know  he  likes  having 
me  with  him,"  he  said.  "  It  was  fortunate  that  Mr. 
Coles  and  he  met  just  at  that  time." 

"  I  believe  if  they  hadn't  met  then  he  would  have 
fixed  it  up  with  somebody  else.  Don't  you  remember 
how  angry  he  was  when  I  suggested  that  you  should 
come  and  live  with  us  at  Storbridge  instead  of  riding 


394  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

over  every  day?  He  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  I  can't  say 
that  the  reasons  he  gave  against  it  amounted  to  much. 
I  believe  it  was  simply  that  he  didn't  want  to  lose  you. 
And  I  believe  it  was  the  same  reason  that  made  him 
think  of  going  to  London." 

"  Dear  old  father,"  said  Richard.  "  I  hope  that  had 
something  to  do  with  it.  But  I'm  quite  sure  I  shall 
never  hear  it  from  him  if  it  had.  I'm  very  glad  that  he 
did  come  up  to  London.  Nobody  valued  his  goodness 
and  self-sacrifice  at  Beechurst,  but  they  think  a  lot  of 
him  here.  His  church  is  always  full,  and  he  is  immensely 
busy.  I  am  quite  sure  that  he  is  happy  in  his  work. 
He  is  far  more  cheerful  than  I  ever  knew  him  before. 
He  and  Dr.  Aquinas  are  carrying  on  a  very  downright 
warfare  on  the  subject  of  vestments  in  the  local  paper, 
and  I  think  he  is  getting  a  lot  of  enjoyment  out  of  it. 
He  proposes  that  we  shall  publish  the  correspondence  in 
pamphlet  form  when  he  has  finally  done  with  Dr. 
Aquinas.  He  thinks  it  ought  to  cause  widespread  in- 
terest." 

"  Isn't  it  rather  dull  for  you  living  in  Stroud  End, 
Mr.  Richard?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Meaking. 

"  I  don't  find  it  so,"  said  Richard.  "  My  work  takes 
up  most  of  my  time,  you  know.  And  I  can  get  into 
town  to  see  my  friends  if  I  want  to,  quite  easily.  I  go 
abroad  for  a  month  or  so  every  year,  and  am  often  in 
the  country  at  other  times.  No,  I  am  quite  contented 
to  be  with  my  father  for  the  present." 

"  We  shall  have  you  marrying,  one  of  these  days," 
said  Mrs.  Meaking,  archly.  "  I  often  say  to  Montague 
that  it  is  not  right  that  both  partners  in  the  firm  should 
still  remain  bachelors." 

"  Neither  Dick  nor  I  have  come  across  Miss  Right 
yet,"  said  Meaking.  "  When  we  do  we'll  let  you  know, 


TEN  YEARS  LATER  395 

mother.  Let's  go  and  have  a  stroll,  Dick.  We've  got 
half  an  hour  of  daylight  left." 

They  went  out  and  inspected  the  garden,  in  which 
Meaking  took  immense  pride,  rising  early  every  morn- 
ing to  work  among  his  flower  beds  for  an  hour,  before 
arraying  himself  in  the  modern  equivalent  to  purple  and 
fine  linen,  thus  turning  himself  from  the  semi-bucolic 
into  the  man  of  affairs.  Then  they  went  out  and  walked 
along  the  tree-bordered  road,  and  penetrated  a  short 
way  into  the  twilight  woods,  talking  as  intimate  friends 
well  satisfied  with  one  another. 

"  It's  a  great  satisfaction  to  me  to  think  that  all 
my  ideas  turned  out  right  as  far  as  you  were  con- 
cerned," said  Meaking,  when  they  had  discussed  for  a 
short  time  certain  schemes  which  they  had  in  hand. 
"  You  couldn't  have  gone  into  anything  that  would  have 
suited  you  so  well  as  this." 

"  It  suits  me  admirably,"  said  Richard.  "  I  enjoy 
the  work,  and  I'm  making  use  of  most  of  my  knowledge 
and  most  of  my  tastes.  But  I  shouldn't  have  made  much 
of  it  alone.  It  was  you  who  have  always  turned  my 
ideas  into  success,  and  your  own  as  well." 

"  Neither  of  us  could  have  done  so  well  without  the 
other.  I  saw  that  from  the  beginning.  It  was  a  bit  of  a 
struggle  at  first,  but  we've  never  looked  back,  have  we?  " 

"  Not  since  we  started  the  Storbridge  Editions.  That 
was  the  turning  point.  And  that  was  your  idea." 

"  Yes.  I'd  been  working  up  to  it  ever  since  I'd  taken 
on  the  binding  and  printing  down  at  Storbridge.  Lots 
of  them  have  done  it  since,  but  we  were  first  in  the  field, 
and  I  must  say  that  I  don't  think  anybody  has  ever  done 
it  better.  We're  well  up  the  ladder  now,  Dick,  and 
likely  to  climb  still  higher.  We're  well  off,  too,  both  of 
us,  and  quite  likely  to  get  rich.  Lor',  what  an  enjoy- 


396  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

able  thing  life  is !  I  don't  suppose  there  are  many  fel- 
lows of  our  age  as  happy  and  contented  as  we  are.  I 
don't  want  anything  more  than  I've  got  now,  except  to 
get  on  still  farther.  Do  you?  " 

Richard  was  silent,  and  they  walked  on  in  the  grow- 
ing dusk  of  the  spring  evening. 


CHAPTER    XXX 
IN  CURZON  STREET 

RICHAKD  wa»  sitting  at  breakfast  with  his  father  in  the 
rather  dingy  dining-room  of  the  vicarage  at  Stroud 
End.  John  Baldock,  except  for  his  grey  hair,  looked  a 
younger  man  than  when  we  last  saw  him.  He  had  found 
his  niche  in  life,  was  immensely  busy  with  work  that 
made  incessant  demands  upon  him,  and  did  not  have  to 
be  invented  in  the  recesses  of  his  own  brain,  and  found 
himself  at  the  age  of  sixty-five  absorbed  in  interests 
which  took  him  out  of  himself,  and  still  possessing  the 
energy  of  a  young  man  in  facing  his  manifold  responsi- 
bilities. He  sometimes  asked  himself  why  he  had  been 
content  to  shut  himself  up  for  nearly  thirty  years  in  a 
small  country  parish,  when  life  in  the  crowded  centres 
of  humanity  was  so  much  more  congenial  to  him.  He 
had  no  worldly  ambitions,  but  the  thought  occasionally 
crossed  his  mind  that  if  he  had  started  his  clerical  work 
in  a  town  parish  he  might  by  this  time  have  risen  to  a 
position  of  authority  in  the  Church.  He  felt  himself 
capable  of  filling  such  a  position — even  thought  that  it 
might  have  been  a  good  thing  for  the  Church  if  he  had 
filled  it.  But  these  thoughts  occurred  seldom.  As  it 
was,  he  had  greatly  extended  his  sphere  of  influence, 
and  was  prepared  to  go  on  working  in  his  big  parish  of 
rather  mean  little  suburban  streets  and  houses  as  long 
as  he  had  strength  to  work  anywhere. 

Richard  was  reading  the  Times,  and  his  father  the 
Rock.    The  morning  on  which  the  Rock  appeared  on  his 

397 


398  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

breakfast  table  was  a  happy  one  for  John  Baldock,  for 
he  had  developed  into  an  ardent  controversialist,  and 
that  journal  was  frequently  favoured  with  a  lengthy 
exposition  of  his  views.  He  was  now  re-reading  a  letter 
of  a  column  and  a  half  signed  with  his  name.  It  looked 
better  in  print  than  it  had  done  in  manuscript,  and 
his  face  was  wearing  an  agreeable  expression  when 
the  morning  letters  were  brought  in.  He  laid  his  by  the 
side  of  his  plate  and  went  on  with  his  reading.  There 
was  only  one  for  Richard.  It  was  addressed  in  a  feminine 
hand,  and  he  opened  it  with  some  surprise.  His  look 
changed  to  one  of  pleasure  as  he  glanced  at  the  signa- 
ture before  reading  it,  and  when  he  had  read  it  once  he 
read  it  again,  still  with  a  smile  on  his  lips.  It  was 
from  Lettice  Ventrey,  and  was  dated  the  day  before 
from  the  house  in  Curzon  Street  which  Mrs.  Meaking 
had  stated  to  be  the  usual  abode  of  the  Honourable 
Mrs.  Pell. 

"  Dear  Dick  (it  ran) — What  ages  it  is  since  we  last  saw 
each  other!  I  think  you  must  have  quite  forgotten  your 
old  friend.  But  no,  I  am  sure  you  haven't.  You  must  think 
of  the  dear  days  at  Beechurst  as  often  as  I  do,  and  of 
the  forest,  and  all  the  happy  times  we  had  there  together. 
I  have  been  in  most  of  the  countries  of  Europe  during  the 
last  four  years,  and  seem  to  have  been  wandering  for  forty, 
but  my  heart  is  still  true  to  that  sweet  corner  of  the  world, 
and  I  have  often  longed  and  longed  to  be  back  there,  just 
as  we  were  in  the  old  days  with  dear  grandpapa,  so  kind 
and  wise,  and  the  beautiful  quiet  sunny  house,  and  the  still 
more  beautiful  forest  whose  secrets  we  explored  together 
through  all  the  long  years  of  my  childhood.  I  don't  sup- 
pose any  girl  ever  had  a  happier  childhood  than  mine,  and 
you  are  so  mixed  up  with  it  that  I  can't  remember  that  I 
am  now  a  young  woman  supposed  to  be  thinking  of  nothing 
but  balls  and  town  enjoyments,  and  that  you  are,  probably, 


IN  CURZON  STREET  399 

a  grave  man  who  has  little  time — or  inclination — to  think 
of  the  little  girl  you  did  so  much  to  make  happy  years  ago. 
And  yet  I  am  sure  that  you  haven't  changed  a  bit,  and  will 
be  just  as  pleased  to  see  me  again  as  I  shall  to  see  you. 
Which  brings  me  to  the  most  important  part  of  my  letter. 
My  aunt  hopes  you  will  excuse  the  very  short  notice,  and 
dine  with  us  to-morrow  at  a  quarter-past  eight.  We  are  so 
busy  rushing  about  day  after  day  and  night  after  night 
that  a  free  evening  is  a  boon  to  be  seized,  and  I  don't  know 
when  we  shall  have  another.  So  do  come  if  you  possibly 
can,  and  let  us  have  a  good  talk  over  old  times.  Ever  your 
sincere  friend — Lettice  Ventrey." 

The  warm  memories  awakened  by  this  letter  were 
broken  in  upon  by  John  Baldock's  voice.  "  You  re- 
member that  the  choirmen  are  coming  to  supper  to- 
night, Richard.  I  hope  you  have  no  engagement." 

"  I  have  just  had  a  letter  from  Lettice  Ventrey, 
father,"  Richard  replied.  "  She  is  in  London  with  Lady 
Pontypridd,  and  they  have  asked  me  to  dine  with  them 
to-night." 

"  Dear  me!  "  ejaculated  John  Baldock.  "  I  had  for- 
gotten the  very  existence  of  Lettice  Ventrey.  Lady 
Pontypridd  I  remember.  Not  a  very  agreeable  woman, 
it  struck  me,  although  we  had  some  talk  on  one  occasion 
at  Beechurst  in  which  we  found  we  were  agreed  that  the 
growth  of  lawlessness  in  the  Church  had  been  greatly 
accelerated  during  the  last  few  years.  But  sound  views 
do  not  always  make  for  humility,  and  I  recollect  Lady 
Pontypridd  as  showing  more  than  the  usual  foolish 
pride  of  her  class.  We  are  all  equal  before  God,  Who 
bringeth  the  lofty  from  their  seat  and  exalteth  the  hum- 
ble and  meek.  But  I  hope  you  will  not  accept  this 
invitation  for  to-night.  It  will  help  me  a  great  deal 
with  the  ohoirmen  if  you  are  here  to  support  me.  It  is 


400  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

a  little  difficult  to  break  the  ice  on  these  festal  occasions, 
and  you  would  be  of  the  greatest  assistance  in  doing  so 
to-night." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  father,  but  if  you  don't  very  much 
mind  I  think  I  should  like  to  go.  It  i§  so  long  since  I 
saw  Lettice  that  I  am  anxious  not  to  miss  the  oppor- 
tunity." 

"  Couldn't  you  go  some  other  night?  The  choirmen 
only  come  here  twice  a  year,  and  it  is  a  great  occasion 
for  them." 

"  Lettice  gays  they  are  so  occupied  that  this  is  the 
only  night  they  are  likely  to  have  free.  I  am  very 
sorry  to  forsake  you,  but  I  am  afraid  you  must  do 
without  me." 

"  Well,  if  you  wish  to  go,  I  will  not  stop  you.  You 
are  very  good  in  giving  me  your  help  as  a  rule  on  these 
occasions,  and  I  value  it.  I  must  not  expect  you  to 
relinquish  all  your  leisure  time  to  my  interests." 

"  Thank  you,  father.  I  shouldn't  cry  off  to-night 
if  I  were  not  very  anxious  not  to  miss  this  opportunity 
of  seeing  Lettice  again.  You  know  what  friends  we 
were  years  ago.  I  haven't  seen  her  for  over  four  years. 
She'll  be  altered,  of  course,  but  she  writes  as  if  she  were 
just  the  same." 

So  Richard  took  a  bag  up  to  town,  dressed  in  his 
office  room,  and  appeared  in  Curzon  Street  at  the  ap- 
pointed hour. 

The  house  that  Lady  Pontypridd  had  rented  for  the 
season  from  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Pell  was  very  small, 
and,  if  it  had  not  been  in  such  a  highly  considered  part 
of  the  town,  might  have  been  said  to  be  a  little  stuffy. 
The  dining-room,  with  the  passage  that  gave  entrance 
to  the  house,  occupied  the  whole  of  the  ground-floor, 
and  even  then  left  much  to  be  desired  in  point  of  airi- 


IN  CURZON  STREET  401 

ness.  The  first  floor  was  devoted  exclusively  to  the 
drawing-room,  and  when  you  had  accounted  for  the 
room  sacred  to  the  nightly  dreams  of  Lady  Pontypridd, 
and  that  assigned  to  Lettice,  it  was  difficult  to  imagine 
where  the  tall  footman  who  opened  the  door  to  Richard, 
and  the  decorous  butler  who  preceded  him  upstairs,  and 
the  cook  who  prepared  the  dinner  which  he  presently 
ate,  and  the  kitchen  maid  who  helped  her,  and  the  maid 
who  attended  to  the  due  care  of  the  house,  and  the  maid 
who  helped  Lady  Pontypridd  attire  herself,  and  the 
maid  who  performed  the  like  service  for  Lettice,  could 
possibly  bestow  themselves,  even  supposing  that  some 
of  their  parts  were  doubled.  Lady  Pontypridd's  din- 
ners, however,  were  very  good,  and  the  wines  poured  out 
by  the  decorous  butler  not  unacceptable  to  the  male 
palate;  and  if  there  was  very  little  space  in  the  house 
in  Curzon  Street  that  Lady  Pontypridd  had  taken  from 
the  Honourable  Mrs.  Pell,  there  was  seldom  any  lack  of 
people  to  fill  what  little  space  there  was. 

Richard  was  shown  into  a  drawing-room  bright  with 
gay  chintzes  and  flowers  and  silver,  and  having  arrived 
punctually  at  the  hour  mentioned  in  Lettice's  note,  was 
left  by  himself  for  a  considerable  time  to  examine  the 
belongings  of  Lady  Pontypridd  and  those  of  the  Hon- 
ourable Mrs.  Pell.  Among  the  former  was  a  large 
photograph  in  a  silver  frame  of  a  beautiful  girl  in  train 
and  feathers,  and  Richard  had  little  difficulty  in  recog- 
nizing, under  the  unfamiliar  guise,  the  features  of  Let- 
tice, although  the  changes  that  a  few  years  of  a  girl's 
life  between  fourteen  and  eighteen  made  in  her  appear- 
ance struck  him  as  astonishing.  There  was  the  same 
sweet  confiding  smile,  the  same  friendly  eyes,  the  same 
look  of  dainty  freshness,  and  his  heart  tightened  a  little 
as  the  child  Lettice,  whom  he  knew  so  well,  gradually 


402  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

revealed  herself  in  the  form  of  the  stately  young  beauty 
in  all  her  finery. 

Presently  Lettice  herself  came  into  the  room,  and  she 
was  just  the  same  as  she  had  always  been,  although,  if 
he  had  met  her  by  chance  in  the  street,  he  might  not 
have  recognized  her  at  the  moment. 

*'  Oh,  Dick,"  she  said,  "  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you. 
You  can't  think  how  I  have  missed  you,  and  the  forest 
and  everything.  And  you  haven't  altered  in  the  least, 
except  that  you  have  lost  your  merry  freckles.  I  sup- 
pose that  is  London,  and  I  should  have  lost  mine  by 
this  time  if  I  had  ever  had  any." 

Her  eyes  were  dewy  as  she  smiled  her  welcome,  and  he 
had  the  same  tightening  of  the  throat  that  he  had  felt 
when  he  looked  at  her  portrait.  "  Come  and  sit  down," 
she  said.  "  I  hurried  over  dressing.  Aunt  Louisa  won't 
be  here  for  another  five  minutes.  Do  you  know  I  haven't 
been  in  England  for  four  years?  First  Dresden,  then 
Paris  and  Florence  and  Rome  and  Pau,  and  dozens  of 
other  places  in  between.  Aunt  Louisa  used  to  come 
home  occasionally  when  she  had  seen  me  safely  settled 
for  a  term's  work,  wherever  I  was,  but  she  never  brought 
me.  I  was  to  be  thoroughly  educated  before  I  burst  on 
the  scene.  And  I  hope  I  am  thoroughly  educated,  for 
I  don't  want  to  go  through  it  again.  I  am  as  English 
as  I  can  be,  and  I  simply  love  to  be  back  again,  even  if 
it  is  only  in  London." 

"  And  you  are  going  through  your  season?  How  do 
you  like  it,  Lettice?  As  much  as  Beechurst  and  the 
forest?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  But  I  do  like  it.  I'll  be  quite  honest,  as 
grandpapa  taught  me  to  be.  Do  you  remember  when 
I  fell  off  the  pony  and  got  on  again  and  said  I  wasn't 
frightened?  I  have  never  forgotten  that.  He  said: 


IN  CURZON  STREET  403 

*  If  you  had  said  you  were  frightened,  as  anybody 
could  have  seen  for  themselves,  I  should  have  said  you 
were  a  plucky  little  girl  to  try  again.  As  it  is,  Filmer 
had  better  wheel  me  indoors,  I  am  no  longer  interested 
in  your  scrambles.'  Dear  grandpapa!  It  brings  it  all 
back  to  me  to  see  you,  Dick.  What  happy  times  we 
used  to  have,  didn't  we?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  we  did.     But  still,  you  like  this  too?  " 

"  It  is  great  fun.  We  go  dashing  about  everywhere, 
morning,  noon,  and  night.  There  is  always  something 
amusing  to  do  or  to  see.  And  London  is  lovely  in  May, 
so  fresh  and  bright,  with  flowers  and  sunshine  every- 
where. Don't  you  think  so?  " 

"  Well,  my  London  is  not  very  full  of  flowers,  or  of 
sunshine.  But  then  mine  is  the  working  London.  It  is 
quite  a  different  London  that  is  occupied  by  you  but- 
terflies of  fashion." 

Lettice  laughed.  "Am  I  a  butterfly  of  fashion?  I 
suppose  I  am.  I  always  said  I  shouldn't  be,  you  know, 
in  the  old  days.  We  arranged  that  we  would  always 
live  in  the  forest,  didn't  we?  and  never  go  near  a  town." 

"  Yes.  And  now  we  have  both  come  to  town — I  to 
work  and  you  to  play." 

"  But  your  life  isn't  all  work,  Dick.  You  must  have 
some  playtime.  What  do  you  do  with  it?  I  have 
never  seen  you  about  anywhere,  and  I  have  often  looked 
for  you." 

"  I  don't  spend  my  playtime  where  I  should  be  likely 
to  be  seen  by  a  young  lady  of  fashion." 

"  Don't  you  ever  go  to  balls,  or  the  play,  or  the 
opera,  or  anywhere?  " 

"  I  don't  go  to  balls.  I  do  go  to  a  play  sometimes, 
and  very  occasionally  to  the  opera." 

"  Ah,  then,  you  are  not  such  a  hermit  as  you  make 


404  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

yourself  out.  I  think  I  love  the  opera  more  than 
anything.  I  am  not  altogether  satisfied  with  Covent 
Garden  after  Dresden,  you  know,  but  some  of  the 
singers  are  magnificent,  and  it  is  great  fun  to  have 
a  sort  of  jolly  evening  party  made  out  of  it,  instead 
of  going  through  it  all  so  seriously.  Oh,  yes,  I  do 
love  London,  Dick.  All  the  people  and  the  gaiety,  and 
every  thing " 

"  And  admiration,  Lettice?  " 

She  laughed  gaily,  but  not  without  a  little  blush. 
"  I  have  found  out  that  I  am  a  beauty,"  she  said,  look- 
ing at  him  with  the  most  engaging  frankness.  "  I 
really  hadn't  any  idea  of  it.  Honestly,  I  hadn't.  There 
are  so  many  other  things  to  think  about.  I  can't  pre- 
tend to  be  displeased  at  the  discovery." 

"  And  when  did  you  make  the  great  discovery  ?  " 

"  When  I  was  presented.  The  papers  said  it  first, 
but  a  lot  of  people  have  mentioned  it  since.  However, 
I'm  not  going  to  talk  about  it;  only  you  know  how  I 
was  brought  up — never  to  be  afraid  of  the  truth.  And 
it  is  the  truth  that  I  have  turned  into  a  pretty  girl. 
Now,  isn't  it,  Dick?" 

"  No,  it  isn't,"  said  Richard.  "  You  were  always 
pretty — much  more  than  pretty.  You  were  the  only 
person  who  didn't  know  it." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  Dick.  Well,  I  know  it 
now,  and,  as  I  say,  the  discovery  has  pleased  me.  Here 
is  auntie." 

Lady  Pontypridd,  who  now  sailed  into  the  room  under 
rather  heavy  canvas,  was  stouter  and  whiter  than  she 
had  been  when  Richard  had  last  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  her,  but  otherwise  unchanged.  She  was  rather 
more  gracious  towards  himself  than  she  had  been,  but 
even  while  she  greeted  him  with  an  approach  to  affabil- 


IN  CURZON  STREET  405 

ity,  the  eye  with  which  she  overlooked  him  was  cold,  not 
to  say  hostile,  and  he  was  not  able  to  feel  that  he  had 
bestowed  any  real  happiness  on  her  by  accepting  her 
invitation. 

"  Dear  me,"  she  said,  "  you  have  altered  a  great 
deal.  I  hear  you  are  making  a  great  success  of  your 
business.  Lord  Frederic  Lacy  was  telling  me  the  other 
day  that  your  firm  was  so  highly  thought  of.  He  knows 
a  great  deal  about  books  and  magazines,  and  so  on." 

"  We  are  doing  very  well,"  said  Richard.  "  We  pay 
a  lot  of  attention  to  the  business." 

"  That  is  so  wise,"  said  Lady  Pontypridd.  "  You 
cannot — shall  we  go  in  to  dinner? — you  cannot — we 
must  go  down  one  by  one — you  cannot  really  do  any 
good  business  unless  you  pay  attention  to  it — mind  the 
loose  rug  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  But  if  you  do  I 
am  quite  sure  that  you  can  make  it  a  great  success,  and 
make  money  out  of  it  into  the  bargain." 

"  I  should  quite  have  enjoyed  engaging  in  business 
myself,"  pursued  Lady  Pontypridd,  when  they  had 
taken  their  seats  at  the  table.  "  There  must  be  some- 
thing quite  romantic  about  walking  into  the  Stock  Ex- 
change, and  making  a  thousand  pounds  by  a  mere  nod." 

"Do  they  do  that?"  said  Lettice.  "What  lucky 
people!  Why  doesn't  everybody  go  on  the  Stock  Ex- 
change? " 

"  They  want  a  head  for  it,  of  course,"  said  Lady 
Pontypridd,  "  or  they  might  just  as  easily  lose.  But  I 
am  sure  that  I  have  the  head,  and  should  do  very 
well." 

"  Auntie,  dear,  I  am  quite  sure  you  would  lose  every 
penny  you've  got,"  said  Lettice ;  "  you  are  far  too 
confiding." 

Lady  Pontypridd  ignored  this  compliment.     "  Can 


406  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

you  tell  me  anything  about  Maritana  Gold  Mines,  Mr. 
Baldock?  "  she  asked.  "  I  bought  a  few  hundred  shares 
some  months  ago,  on  the  advice  of  young  George  Char- 
ing, Lord  Otford's  boy,  who  was  ploughed  for  the 
Army,  and  is  now  doing  very  well  in  the  City.  I  pro- 
cured them  extraordinarily  cheap,  as  they  were  one 
pound  shares,  and  the  man  who  wished  to  sell  them  was 
content  to  take  five  and  threepence  apiece  for  them. 
Young  Charing  arranged  that." 

"  A  friend  of  mine  bought  some,  too,"  said  Richard. 
"  I  think  you  could  get  them  for  the  odd  threepence 
now." 

"  Then  if  I  were  to  sell  those  I  have  at  present  at 
the  price  I  gave  for  them,  or  rather  more,  and  were 
to  buy  several  thousand  shares  at  a  very  low  price  with 
the  proceeds,  I  suppose  I  should  stand  to  gain  a  large 
sum  of  money?"  said  Lady  Pontypridd.  "That  is 
how  things  are  managed,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Well,  I'm  afraid  not  exactly,"  Richard  began,  but 
Lettice  broke  in.  "  Don't  let's  talk  about  money,"  she 
said.  "  Auntje,  you  know  you  have  not  quite  as  much 
as  you  want.  If  you  go  speculating  you  will  only  lose 
it  all." 

"  I  should  never  dream  of  speculating,  Lettice,"  re- 
plied Lady  Pontypridd.  "  But  buying  and  selling  a 
few  mining  shares  or  railway  shares,  or  whatever  they 
may  be,  is  a  well-known  way  of  making  money,  and 
one  which  well-known  people  employ.  And  however  rich 
one  may  be — not  that  I  am  rich,  far  from  it — it  is 
always  agreeable  to  have  a  little  more.  Don't  you  agree 
with  me,  Mr.  Baldock?" 

Richard  agreed  as  far  as  was  necessary  to  preserve 
the  requisite  harmony  of  the  table,  but  in  truth  he  was 
paying  very  little  attention  to  Lady  Pontypridd  or  her 


IN  CUR20N  STREET  407 

conversation.  He  was  taken  up  with  Lettice,  who  ap- 
peared to  him  in  the  light  of  a  revelation.  It  was  not 
only  that  she  was  beautiful,  although  she  was  undoubt- 
edly beautiful,  with  face  and  hair  and  eyes  to  have 
confounded  many  a  young  man  not  the  most  impression- 
able. It  was  that  with  all  this  new  and  strange  and 
rare  beauty,  she  was  still  the  Lettice  he  knew  so  well, 
the  Lettice  in  whose  presence  he  felt  all  the  old  charm 
of  his  happiest  days,  whom  he  had  always  loved,  and 
because  he  had  always  loved  her,  whose  new  beauty  re- 
vealed itself  to  him  as  a  subject,  not  only  of  admiration, 
but  of  pride.  Conflicting  emotions  passed  through  his 
mind  as  he  talked  to  her  over  the  dinner  table,  and 
afterwards  in  the  drawing-room  by  the  piano,  while 
Lady  Pontypridd  read  the  evening  paper,  and  probably 
dozed  a  little.  At  one  moment  he  seemed  to  be  talking 
to  someone  whom  he  knew  so  well  that  her  proximity 
was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world;  at  the  next 
he  was  with  a  stranger,  and  he  could  hardly  believe 
that  he  had  the  right  to  such  delightful  intimacy.  His 
main  feeling  was  one  of  bewilderment.  It  was  Lettice, 
his  little  friend  of  the  forest,  unchanged.  It  was  a 
lovely  girl,  moving  in  bright  worlds,  with  which  he 
could  never  be  familiar.  But  still  it  was  Lettice,  and, 
again,  he  kept  on  saying  to  himself,  unchanged — and 
yet  with  a  strange,  new  power,  which  he  should  never 
have  expected  her  to  possess,  for  she  could  make  the 
little  dining-room  glow  with  a  radiance  that  lights  and 
flowers  and  silver  had  no  power  to  evoke,  and  could 
even  throw  over  the  comfortable  figure  of  Lady  Ponty- 
pridd, sunk  in  an  easy-chair,  a  glamour  which  it  did 
not  possess  of  itself. 

The  evening  was  not  a  long  one,  for  Lady  Ponty- 
pridd and  Lettice  had  their  parties  to  go  to,  and  Rich- 


409  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

ard  was  out  of  the  house  by  eleven  o'clock,  making  his 
way  to  his  home  in  the  distant  suburbs.  He  carried 
away  with  him  the  remembrance  of  Lettice's  sweet  face, 
the  scent  of  her  clothes,  the  sound  of  her  voice;  and 
the  radiance  that  hung  round  her,  filling  the  poky  little 
house  in  Curzon  Street,  and  lapping  even  Lady  Ponty- 
pridd  with  its  beams,  went  with  him  through  the  dark- 
ness. 

Richard's  hour  had  come  like  a  thief  in  the  night. 
He  had  always  loved  Lettice,  but  the  love  with  which  he 
loved  her  now  was  as  different  from  his  former  love  as 
the  poles  are  far  asunder.  The  whole  world  was  changed 
for  him,  and  he  lay  down  that  night  with  happiness 
embracing  him  like  a  garment. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

TROUBLED  DAYS 

THE  gleam  of  happiness  which  had  struck  into  Rich- 
ard's somewhat  prosaic  life  lasted  no  longer  than  the 
night  which  followed  his  meeting  with  Lettice.  The 
morning  brought  doubts  which  piled  themselves  one 
upon  another  until  his  whole  sky  was  overcast  by  them. 
He  had  fallen  desperately  in  love.  There  was  no  dis- 
guising that  fact,  which  was  sufficiently  obvious  to 
make  it  impossible  for  him  to  deceive  himself  as  to  the 
quality  of  his  new  feeling  for  Lettice.  But  the  admis- 
sion that  it  was  so  brought  him  little  gratification.  He 
was  not  a  boy  to  whom  the  first  stages  of  a  passion  are 
so  new  and  delightful  that  the  mind  is  content  to  feed 
on  the  delicious  sensations  of  the  moment  and  to  leave 
the  future  unconsidered.  His  passion  for  Lettice  was 
as  keen  as  if  her  beauty  and  sweetness  had  been  that 
of  a  stranger  revealed  to  him  suddenly  in  a  flash  of 
what  is  known  as  love  at  first  sight.  But  it  was  made 
immeasurably  stronger  and  more  lasting  by  his  knowl- 
edge of  her.  He  knew  that  the  new  and  rare  graces 
that  had  taken  him  captive  by  a  shock  were  allied  to 
qualities  of  mind  and  character  deserving  of  all  devo- 
tion, and  there  could  be  no  doubts,  no  after  thoughts, 
that  in  yielding  to  his  love  for  her  he  had  been  carried 
away  by  the  mere  fascination  of  her  beauty. 

But  he  wanted  more  than  to  cherish  his  love  for  her 
in  his  own  bosom ;  much  more.  He  wanted  her  and  all 
her  sweetness  and  friendliness  for  his  own.  He  wanted 

409 


410  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

to  declare  his  love  and  have  it  returned.  And  here 
he  seemed  to  be  met  with  insuperable  difficulties. 

These  difficulties  lay  not  so  much  in  the  difference 
between  his  position  in  the  world  and  hers.  She  was 
rich,  but  he  ignored  that,  as  he  knew  she  would  ignore 
it  in  her  frank  generosity,  supposing  there  to  be  no 
other  obstacle  to  his  suit.  He  was  not  a  needy  adven- 
turer pursuing  an  heiress.  He  was  well  off  already,  and 
was  growing  richer  every  year.  There  could  be  no  great 
disparity  between  them  in  this  respect.  And  yet,  after 
all,  it  was  the  difference  in  position,  if  not  in  wealth, 
which  made  his  suit  appear  almost  hopeless.  She  moved 
in  a  different  world  from  his.  She  was  surrounded  by 
wealth  and  rank  and  luxury,  and  he  was  a  worker  with 
the  fewest  possible  connections  with  the  world  of  fashion 
and  leisure  in  which  she  was  shining  now  as  a  bright 
particular  star.  His  very  pride  in  her  forced  him  to  set 
her  high  above  himself.  What  chances  would  he  have, 
an  unknown  undistinguished  young  man,  to  enjoy  her 
favour  against  those  of  the  many  eligible,  self-confident 
suitors,  distinguished  by  birth,  wealth,  perhaps  actual 
achievements,  whose  approaches  her  aunt  would  take 
good  care  should  be  made  easy? 

His  manhood  rose  up  to  encourage  him.  He  wanted 
her  for  his  own.  He  loved  her  and  could  make  her 
happy.  He  had  a  right  to  try  to  gain  her  love,  the 
right  of  an  honest  lover,  and  he  would  fight  for  it 
against  those  most  favoured  in  externals  against  him- 
self. 

But  how  was  he  to  fight?  The  very  battle-ground 
was  hedged  round  with  obstacles  which  he  knew  not  how 
to  surmount.  The  men  whom  he  pictured  to  himself 
as  his  rivals  lived  the  same  life,  breathed  the  same  air 
as  she  did.  They  could  urge  their  suit,  directly  or  in- 


TROUBLED  DAYS  411 

directly,  night  and  day,  while  he  must  remain  outside 
the  enchanted  ground  and  see  her  only  at  rare  intervals. 
For  the  simple  little  fact,  which  was  yet  of  such  impor- 
tance, obtruded  itself  upon  him :  he  had  not  the  entrance 
to  the  places  where  she  was  now  to  be  seen.  And,  fur- 
ther than  that,  he  knew  that  if  he  tried  to  scale  the 
weak  places  in  the  palisades  that  surrounded  her,  Lady 
Pontypridd,  whose  recent  complacency  towards  himself 
he  priced  very  low,  would  use  all  her  energies  to 
strengthen  them  against  him. 

Well,  the  difficulties  in  front  of  him  were  rather 
mean  ones.  He  would  have  preferred  to  have  to  fight 
something  more  serious  than  the  opposition  of  an  am- 
bitious old  woman  and  the  exclusiveness  of  a  social 
clique.  But  if  those  were  the  obstacles  that  lay  between 
him  and  the  lady  of  his  choice  he  would  surmount  them 
as  best  he  could,  and  bring  to  bear  upon  them  the  same 
intrepid  constancy  which  the  knights  of  old  had  offered 
to  their  more  formidable  enemies. 

These  considerations  did  not  occur  to  him  all  at  once, 
but  they  pressed  upon  him  hardly  when  he  came  to 
discover  what  a  barrier  there  was  between  the  daily  life 
of  the  class  to  which  Lettice  belonged,  the  class  which 
uses  London  for  a  few  months  in  the  spring  and  early 
summer  as  a  city  of  pleasure,  and  his  own  much  larger 
class  which  lives  and  works  in  it  all  the  year  round. 
At  first  he  was  fortunate.  He  called  on  Lady  Ponty- 
pridd a  few  days  after  he  had  dined  in  Curzon  Street 
and  found  Lettice,  by  a  happy  chance,  alone.  He 
talked  to  her  for  half  an  hour,  and  came  away  more 
deeply  in  love  with  her  than  ever.  She  was  frankly 
friendly,  more  than  friendly,  and  he  was  fired  anew  with 
the  hope  of  winning  her.  Then  he  met  her  at  dinner  at 
the  house  of  a  Royal  Academician,  unexpectedly.  He 


412  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

and  she  were  the  only  young  people  present,  and  he  had 
the  felicity  of  sitting  next  her  at  the  table  and  almost 
monopolizing  her  afterwards.  But  on  this  occasion 
Lady  Pontypridd  was  present,  and  he  saw  cold  gleams 
of  distrust  and  aversion  chasing  each  other  across  that 
lady's  expressive  face.  The  next  evening  he  walked  in 
the  Park,  met  both  the  ladies,  and  snatched  a  few  min- 
utes' conversation,  but  Lady  Pontypridd,  now  roused  to 
action,  manoeuvred  him  out  of  his  advantage,  and  he  had 
the  mortification  of  seeing  Lettice  surrounded  by  the 
butterflies  of  fashion,  towards  whom  he  felt  a  jealous 
dislike,  and,  if  the  truth  were  told,  completely  at  home 
and  merry  in  their  company.  Then  he  called  again  at 
Curzon  Street  and  underwent  a  dreadful  ten  minutes  of 
surface  conversation  with  Lady  Pontypridd,  who  made 
it  quite  clear  that  she  was  only  coldly  civil  to  him  be- 
cause that  method  of  treatment  was  as  likely  to  show 
him  that  he  was  not  wanted  there  as  any  other.  Let- 
tice did  not  appear,  probably  did  not  know  he  was  in 
the  house,  and  he  left  in  despair,  feeling  that  if  he  rang 
Lady  Pontypridd's  bell  again  he  would  be  committing 
an  unpardonable  intrusion. 

After  that,  things  went  from  bad  to  worse.  He 
could  never  look  back  afterwards  upon  the  weeks  which 
followed  without  an  uncomfortable  shrinking  at  the 
thought  of  the  misery  he  endured.  He  could  settle  to 
nothing,  neglected  his  work,  or  as  much  of  it  as  could  be 
neglected,  and  was  for  ever  haunting  the  places  where 
he  might  have  a  chance  of  seeing  her.  His  success  was 
not  remarkable.  Two  or  three  times  he  received  invita- 
tions to  houses  where  he  hoped  to  meet  her,  and,  when  he 
was  not  disappointed  in  his  hope,  he  had  a  few  words 
with  her.  She  was  always  kind  to  him,  but  he  was  too 
diffident  to  take  advantage  of  his  opportunities,  and 


TROUBLED  DAYS  413 

he  came  to  think  after  a  time  that  she  was  getting  a 
little  tired  of  his  modest  advances,  and  was  pleased  when 
other  acquaintances  claimed  her  attention  and  elbowed 
him  out.  He  walked  constantly  in  the  Park  of  an  eve- 
ning and  spoke  to  her  sometimes  there.  But  he  was  so 
obviously  there  for  that  purpose  alone,  knowing  no 
other  soul  of  all  those  who  sat  or  walked  under  the 
trees,  that  it  was  almost  torture  for  him  to  present  him- 
self to  her,  especially  when  she  was  accompanied  by 
Lady  Pontypridd,  who  now  made  no  disguise  of  her 
aversion,  and  even  her  contempt.  He  felt  humiliated, 
out  of  place.  His  lugubrious  face  showed  his  shrinking 
and  could  hardly  have  commended  him  to  the  least 
exacting  or  adored  ladies.  Yes,  Lettice  was  always 
kind  to  him,  but  the  horrible  feeling  came  over  him  by 
and  by  that  she  must  think  him  a  bore. 

Then  he  determined  that  he  would  make  no  more 
efforts  to  see  her,  since  he  could  not  meet  her  on  equal 
terms,  and  for  a  week  he  led  the  life  he  had  led  for  years 
before  this  sudden  desire  had  altered  his  habits.  He 
came  regularly  to  his  office  from  his  father's  suburban 
vicarage,  did  his  work,  and  went  back  again  in  the 
evening.  If  he  dined  out  it  was  where  he  could  have 
no  expectation  of  meeting  Lettice,  and  it  cannot  be 
said  that  he  did  much  to  add  to  the  sociability  of  any 
meal  which  he  ate  in  company.  He  was  very  unhappy, 
and  his  life,  hitherto  smooth  and  well  ordered,  became  a 
procession  of  meaningless  days  and  nights. 

Meaking,  of  course,  noticed  the  change  in  him,  and 
questioned  him  about  it  in  his  bluff  and  not  too  tactful 
manner.  "  I  believe  you're  in  love,"  he  said,  and 
laughed  a  hoarse  guffaw. 

"  You  needn't  worry  about  me,"  said  Richard,  irri- 
tably. "  Something  has  happened  to  upset  me  rather, 


RICHARD  BALDOCK 

but  I'll  keep  my  private  life  apart  from  business,  if  you 
don't  mind.  I  do  my  work  here,  and 

"That's  just  what  you  don't  do,"  interrupted  Mea- 
king.  "  You  get  through  just  what  you've  got  to,  but 
as  for  using  your  brain  over  it — well,  another  clerk 
would  be  as  useful  in  the  office  as  you  just  now.  If 
you're  ill  why  don't  you  go  away  for  a  bit  ?  You  might 
just  as  well  for  all  the  good  you're  doing  here." 

"  I'm  not  ill,"  snapped  Richard.  "  Please  leave  me 
alone." 

Meaking  looked  at  him  intently.  "  You've  never 
spoken  to  me  like  that  before,"  he  said.  "  I  don't 
want  to  pry  into  your  private  affairs,  but  you  know 
what  I  feel  towards  you.  Why  don't  you  tell  me  what's 
the  matter,  and  let  me  help  ?  " 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Richard.  "  You  can't 
help.  I  shall  get  over  it.  I'm  sorry  I  showed  annoy- 
ance." 

Richard  had  been  unhappy  enough  before,  but  his 
wretchedness  at  the  end  of  this  week  of  self-enforced 
denial  was  acute.  What  he  would  have  done  next  if  left 
to  himself  he  was  not  afterwards  able  to  determine. 
But  he  was  not  left  to  himself.  To  his  intense  surprise 
he  received  a  note  from  Lady  Pontypridd  asking  him  to 
dine  in  a  few  days'  time. 

What  induced  Lady  Pontypridd  to  issue  this  invita- 
tion will  never  be  known.  Enlightenment  cannot  now 
come  from  her,  for  she  is  dead  and  has  left  no  diaries. 
Lettice  declared  afterwards  that  she  had  nothing  to  do 
with  it,  and  was  as  surprised  as  Richard  hrmself. 
Compunction  for  her  treatment  of  her  brother's  and 
niece's  friend  it  can  hardly  have  been,  for  Lady  Ponty- 
pridd was  far  removed  by  nature  from  such  feelings. 
It  is  more  probable  that  it  was  the  outcome  of  an  im- 


TROUBLED  DAYS  415 

pulse  of  pure  contempt  for  his  pretensions  and  person. 
The  working  out  of  the  motive  would  be  somewhat 
subtle,  but  for  want  of  a  more  likely  explanation  this 
must  serve,  at  least,  as  a  suggestion. 

Hope  revived  in  Richard's  breast,  and  he  betook  him- 
self once  more  to  the  house  in  Curzon  Street.  He  spent 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  for 
Lettice  did  not  come  down  this  time  to  keep  him  com- 
pany. But  at  the  end  of  fifteen  minutes  he  was  sur- 
prised and  also  disturbed  at  the  entrance  of  another 
guest,  and  once  more  after  ten  years  came  face  to  face 
with  Laurence  Syde. 

Laurence  was  as  handsome  a  man  as  he  had  been  a 
boy.  He  was  dressed,  of  course,  in  the  very  height  of 
the  masculine  fashion  of  the  day,  and  bore  himself  with 
such  an  assured  air  of  superiority  and  self-confidence 
as  he  entered  the  room  that  Richard  felt  all  the  old  un- 
happy sense  of  contrast  revived  in  his  mind  the  moment 
he  set  eyes  on  him. 

Laurence's  eyes  never  wavered  as  he  recognized  his 
one-time  antagonist.  He  did  not  offer  to  shake  hands, 
but  said  in  a  voice  as  unmoved  as  if  they  had  last  seen 
each  other  the  day  before,  "Hallo!  How  are  you? 
Devilish  cold  for  the  time  of  year,  isn't  it?  " 

The  entrance  of  Lady  Pontypridd  and  Lettice  at 
this  moment  saved  Richard  the  necessity  of  a  reply. 
He  could  not  but  envy  Laurence  the  possession  of  quali- 
ties which  made  him,  quite  apart  from  what  he  was  or 
anything  he  might  have  done,  a  man  of  mark,  attracting 
instant  attention  and  deference,  while  he  himself  sank 
naturally  into  the  background  and  was  made  apparently 
of  no  account  whatever.  He  thought  to  himself,  during 
the  progress  of  the  meal  which  followed,  that  if  Lady 
Pontypridd  had  asked  him  and  Laurence  to  the  house 


416  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

together  for  the  express  purpose  of  showing  up  his  own 
inferiority  she  could  hardly  have  chosen  a  more  success- 
ful method  of  humiliating  him  before  Lettice.  Lau- 
rence dominated  the  conversation,  and  led  it  into  chan- 
nels in  which  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  follow.  He 
had  nothing  whatever  to  say,  and  sat  at  Lady  Ponty- 
pridd's  table  as  silent  as  he  had  sat  at  his  aunt's  years 
before,  when  nobody  seemed  to  have  anything  to  say  to 
him  or  any  desire  to  include  him  in  the  conversation. 
Even  Lettice,  although  she  did  turn  to  him  occasionally 
with  her  charming  smile,  and  address  some  remark  to 
him,  did  not  appear  to  be  as  anxious  as  she  might  have 
been  to  turn  the  talk  on  to  a  subject  in  which  he  might 
take  his  part;  for  when  he  had  answered  her  she  left 
him  alone  again,  and  talked  and  laughed  with  Laurence, 
who  for  his  part  ignored  Richard  completely,  as  did 
Lady  Pontypridd  in  what  he  felt  to  be  the  most  inhos- 
pitable fashion.  He  felt  sore  all  over,  bitterly  humili- 
ated. He  was  angry  with  every  one,  even  with  Lettice, 
who  seemed,  every  time  he  saw  her,  to  be  drifting  farther 
away  from  him.  He  wished  a  hundred  times  that  he  had 
not  come  to  the  house.  He  was  only  laying  himself 
open  to  be  despised,  accepting  a  position  in  which  he 
could  not  possibly  expect  to  appear  to  advantage.  He 
told  himself  that  it  should  be  the  last  time. 

He  was  not  made  happier  by  the  conviction  that 
presently  grew  upon  him  that  Laurence  was  applying 
himself  to  the  entertainment  of  Lettice  in  a  way  that 
was  more  marked  than  his  ordinary  manner.  His  own 
feelings  towards  her  rendered  him  susceptible  to  shades 
of  meaning,  and  his  jealousy  sprang  into  flame  as  he 
perceived,  was  convinced  that  he  perceived,  the  man 
whom  he  now  looked  upon  as  his  enemy,  entering  design- 
edly upon  the  first  stages  of  love-making.  His  dislike  of 


TROUBLED  DAYS  417 

Laurence,  his  contempt  for  his  unscrupulous  selfishness 
and  mean  outlook  on  life,  prompted  him  to  put  the  worst 
construction  on  the  possibilities  of  such  a  suit.  He 
would  do  anything  for  money,  he  sneered  to  himself,  and 
put  down  Laurence's  attempts  to  ingratiate  himself 
with  Lettice  as  an  ignoble  pursuit  of  an  heiress,  ignor- 
ing the  charm  of  his  lady  and  her  power  to  attract  the 
most  unworthy  of  mankind.  The  fire  of  his  jealousy 
was  fed  by  his  observation  of  Lettice's  reception  of  Lau- 
rence's efforts  to  please  her.  She  was  far  from  reject- 
ing them.  It  even  seemed  to  him  that  she  went  out  of 
her  way  to  encourage  them,  and  by  the  time  the  ladies 
left  the  room  he  was  in  a  smouldering  state  of  anger 
and  misery. 

But  before  that  time  came  they  talked  of  Beechurst. 

"  How  I  should  love  to  see  the  old  place  again,"  said 
Lettice.  "  All  my  happiest  years  were  spent  there,  and 
I  have  never  been  there  since  my  dear  grandfather 
died." 

"  You  must  come  and  stay  there,"  said  Laurence. 
"  Lady  Pontypridd,  you  will  bring  Miss  Ventrey  down 
for  a  week-end,  won't  you?  It  is  not  so  very  far.  Lady 
Syde  loves  the  place,  too,  and  is  always  flying  off  there. 
She  is  never  happy  in  one  place  for  long.  When  she  is 
in  London  she  wants  to  be  in  the  country,  and  when  she 
is  in  the  country  she  longs  for  the  excitements  of  town." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Lady  Pontypridd.  "  I  am  too 
old  to  enjoy  this  modern  habit  of  careering  all  over 
England  at  a  few  hours'  notice.  In  my  day,  when  we 
came  up  to  London  for  the  season  we  stayed  there  till 
it  was  over,  and  shut  up  our  country  houses  till  we 
settled  down  in  them  again  in  the  autumn." 

"  But  you  didn't  have  motor-cars  in  those  days," 
said  Laurence.  "  They  make  everything  so  easy.  You 


418  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

would  leave  this  house  at  half-past  four  and  get  to 
Beechurst  in  plenty  of  time  for  dinner.  Do  let  us  fix 
up  a  week-end." 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  might  make  an  exception  if  Lady 
Syde  is  kind  enough  to  ask  us,"  said  Lady  Pontypridd. 
"  Beechurst  is  a  very  charming  place,  and  I  own  I 
should  like  to  see  it  again." 

"  That  will  be  delightful !  "  cried  Lettice.  "  I  should 
love  to  spend  a  day  or  two  in  the  dear  old  place.  Do 
you  ever  go  down  there  now  ?  "  she  asked,  turning  to 
Richard. 

"  I  haven't  been  there  for  four  or  five  years,"  he  an- 
swered. "  Not  since  my  aunt  went  to  live  at  the  Hall." 

"Your  aunt?"  echoed  Lady  Pontypridd,  regarding 
him  with  bare  tolerance. 

"  Lady  Syde  is  my  aunt,"  he  said. 

"  You  ought  to  come  down  and  look  her  up,"  said 
Laurence,  addressing  him  for  the  first  time. 

Richard  made  no  reply,  and  presently  the  ladies  left 
the  room. 

When  the  two  young  men  were  left  to  their  coffee  and 
cigarettes  there  was  complete  silence  between  them  for  a 
time.  Richard  sat  hugging  his  bitter  thoughts,  his 
antagonism  towards  his  companion  growing  every  mo- 
ment. Laurence  sat  with  his  eyes  downcast,  buried  in 
his  thoughts.  Apparently  his  opinion  of  Richard's  im- 
portance in  the  scheme  of  things  was  so  slight  that  he 
was  quite  at  ease  in  ignoring  his  presence  altogether  if 
his  own  cogitations  interested  him  enough  to  make  him 
prefer  to  indulge  in  them.  But  presently  he  raised  his 
head  and  said,  "  Have  you  been  living  in  London  since 
your  father  left  Beechurst?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Richard,  shortly. 

"  Why  haven't  you  looked  up  her  ladyship?  "  pursued 


TROUBLED  DAYS  419 

Laurence.     "  We're  in  Brook  Street.     She's  generally 
there  at  this  time  of  the  year." 

"  I   don't  flatter  myself  she  would  be  particularly 
pleased  to  see  me." 
"  Why  not?" 

"  I  should  think  you  could  probably  answer  that 
question  better  than  I  can.  You  told  me  the  last  time 
we  met  that  you'd  take  good  care  I  shouldn't  see  any 
more  of  her,  and  I  supposed  you  did  so." 

Laurence  gave  vent  to  an  impatient  exclamation. 
"  Want  to  have  a  row  again,  do  you?  "  he  said.  "  I've 
never  come  across  a  fellow  quite  so  quarrelsome  as  you. 
I'm  not  going  to  oblige  you.  I  don't  care  a  damn  what 
you  think  or  what  you  do.  We're  not  likely  to  meet 
very  often.  What  you  are  doing  here  I  don't 
know." 

"  It's  quite  easy  to  see  what  you're  doing  here,"  re- 
torted Richard,  unwisely,  out  of  the  bitterness  of  his 
heart. 

Laurence  looked  at  him  with  a  sneering  face,  dully 
red.  "  I'm  going  upstairs,"  he  said,  rising.  "  I'm  not 
going  to  sit  at  the  same  table  with  a  cad." 

Richard  followed  him  upstairs  into  the  drawing-room, 
not  feeling  pleased  with  himself.  The  hour  which  fol- 
lowed did  not  lighten  his  dejection.  Lettice  went  to 
the  piano  and  Laurence  followed  her  at  once.  Lady 
Pontypridd  acquiesced  in  this  arrangement  so  far  as  to 
keep  Richard  by  her  side  and  talk  to  him  with  a  greater 
show  of  amiability  than  she  had  hitherto  employed. 

"  I  didn't  know  that  Lady  Syde  was  your  aunt,"  she 
said.     "What  is  the  exact  relationship?" 
"  She  was  my  mother's  sister,"  he  replied. 
"  She  is  very  rich,  is  she  not  ?  " 
"  I  don't  know.     I  see  very  little  of  her." 


420  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  I  always  understood  that  she  had  no  relatives,  and 
that  she  had  made  Captain  Syde  her  heir." 

Richard  looked  at  the  pair  by  the  piano.  He  would 
have  liked  to  reply :  "  I  can  see  that  you  thought  so." 
but  sat  silent.  Before  he  left  the  house  he  had  two 
minutes'  conversation  with  Lettice,  while  Laurence  ad- 
dressed himself  to  his  hostess. 

"  I  shan't  see  you  again,  Lettice,"  he  said,  looking 
at  her  with  miserable  eyes,  which  yet  spoke  of  a  deter- 
mination taken. 

Her  face  grew  serious,  but  she  returned  his  look. 
"  Why  not,  Dick?  "  she  said,  softly. 

"  Because  I  am  quite  out  of  place  in  your  world,"  he 
said.  "  You  do  not  respect  me  for  intruding  where  I 
am  not  at  home  and  not  wanted.  I  must  go  back  to  my 
work,  and  be  content  with  my  memories  of  you.  They 
are  very  dear  to  me,  and  I  won't  do  anything  more  to 
spoil  them." 

Her  eyes  grew  moist.  "  I  can't  afford  to  lose  an  old 
friend,"  she  said. 

"  You  are  more  at  home  with  your  new  ones,"  he 
answered  her. 

Her  face  altered  and  grew  proud.  "  Perhaps  you  are 
right,"  she  said,  turning  away.  "  You  are  not  the  Dick 
that  I  used  to  know." 

"  If  I  have  altered  it  is  because  you  have.  But  you 
won't  be  troubled  with  me  any  more.  Good  night." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  coldly,  and  he  went  away  with 
a  pain  at  his  heart  which,  he  told  himself,  would  never 
be  healed  as  long  as  he  lived. 

Five  minutes  later  Laurence  Syde  took  his  leave,  after 
having  set  arrangements  in  train  for  a  visit  from  Lady 
Pontypridd  and  Lettice  to  Beechurst  Hall. 


CHAPTER    XXXII 

THE  END  OF  THE  STORY 

THE  little  church  of  Beechurst,  plain  and  undistin- 
guished, stood  by  itself  away  from  the  village  on  the 
top  of  a  rise  overlooking  the  parklike  slopes  towards 
the  Hall  and  its  surrounding  forest  lands.  In  a  corner 
of  the  quiet  churchyard,  away  from  the  road,  grew  a 
giant  yew  tree,  round  the  bole  of  which  was  a  wooden 
seat,  seldom  used  by  the  villagers,  who  preferred  the 
more  populous  spaces  near  their  village  homes.  In  the 
shade  of  this  yew  was  the  grave  of  Richard's  young 
mother,  and  here  one  afternoon  of  early  summer  he  came 
to  soothe  if  he  could  his  constant  unhappiness,  which 
had  grown  no  less  during  the  weeks  which  had  elapsed 
since  he  had  bidden  farewell  to  Lettice. 

He  had  gone  down  the  night  before  to  Storbridge  to 
look  after  the  affairs  of  his  business,  and  having  com- 
pleted his  work  that  morning  had  walked  out  to 
Beechurst.  In  his  present  dejected  mood  he  had  kept 
as  far  as  possible  away  from  the  village,  with  a  view 
to  escaping  the  greetings  of  the  people,  nearly  every 
one  of  whom  he  had  known  intimately.  He  had  walked 
by  unfrequented  forest  tracks,  and  made  his  way  to  his 
old  haunts  at  the  back  of  the  vicarage  garden.  He  had 
stood  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence  by  the  syringa 
bush,  now  grown  to  noble  proportions.  His  old-time 
gap  had  been  patched  up,  and  the  path  his  feet  had 
worn  into  the  spaciousness  of  the  forest  had  vanished 
among  the  springing  grasses.  Sharp  stings  of  memory 

421 


RICHARD  B ALDOCK 

thronged  to  his  brain  as  he  stood  for  a  while  between 
the  garden  and  the  forest.  His  long  childhood,  steeped 
in  the  influence  of  nature  in  all  her  varying  moods,  rose 
up  and  set  itself  in  bright  pictures  before  him.  How 
happy  it  had  been,  in  spite  of  the  restrictions  of  his 
home  life!  He  had  known  no  cares,  and  but  few  sor- 
rows. The  disappointments  which  had  come  to  him  and 
had  been  hard  to  bear  at  the  time  had  been  healed,  and 
were  now  merged  in  the  tale  of  happy  years,  their  occur- 
rence marked  only  in  his  memory  by  a  gentle  regret 
which  bore  no  trace  of  bitterness.  He  penetrated  again 
into  the  recesses  of  the  forest,  finding  nothing  changed, 
the  very  trees  and  green  tracks  familiar,  calling  up 
memories  at  every  turn.  He  found  the  pool  of  the 
otter,  and  the  great  beech  under  whose  shade  he  had 
thought  out  some  of  the  difficulties  that  had  presented 
themselves  to  his  youth  and  early  manhood.  He  had 
nothing  to  regret  in  the  way  his  decision  had  turned 
out.  He  had  decided  rightly  in  every  case,  and  was 
on  the  high  road  to  a  success  greater  than  he  could 
have  hoped  for.  And  yet  his  thoughts  were  full  of  sad- 
ness and  unsatisfied  longing.  Of  what  value  to  him 
was  all  the  interest  of  his  life  when  the  one  gift  he 
desired  above  all  others  was  denied  him?  The  interest 
had  disappeared.  For  weeks  he  had  worked  without 
zest.  He  had  nothing  now  to  look  forward  to.  Suc- 
cess in  life  had  changed  its  colour,  and  was  unrecogniz- 
able from  the  most  dismal  failure. 

He  was  going  presently  to  the  forest  glade  behind 
the  Hall  to  indulge  once  more  in  the  now  painful  memo- 
ries which  that  scene  would  call  up  in  his  mind.  Then 
he  was  going  away  from  Beechurst,  perhaps  never  to 
visit  it  again,  certainly  never  until  the  years  had  healed 
over  the  wound  of  his  great  disappointment,  if  that 


THE  END  OF  THE  STORY  423 

time  ever  came.  But  first  he  had  come  to  visit  his 
mother's  grave,  more  from  a  sense  of  duty  than  any- 
thing else,  for  his  young  mother  was  only  a  name  to 
him.  His  father  had  never  talked  to  him  about  her, 
or  made  any  attempt  to  put  before  the  eyes  of  his  child- 
hood a  picture  that  he  might  carry  with  him  through 
life. 

The  grave  was  simple,  hardly  distinguishable  from 
those  of  the  humble  dead  of  the  village  which  were 
grouped  around  it,  but  he  saw,  somewhat  to  his  sur- 
prise, that  it  was  well  kept,  with  fresh  flowers  growing 
in  its  stone-bordered  bed,  as  if  it  were  constantly  cared 
for.  He  wondered  to  himself  whether  his  father,  un- 
known to  him,  had  left  orders  that  it  should  be  looked 
after.  If  so,  it  was  unlike  him,  for  he  was  a  man  of 
little  sentiment,  and  had  done  nothing  of  the  kind  dur- 
ing the  years  he  had  lived  within  reach  of  it. 

He  heard  the  wicket  gate  of  the  churchyard  shut  to, 
and  a  step  on  the  steep  path  hidden  from  him  by  the 
church.  He  turned  round  to  see  the  figure  of  an  elderly 
woman  approaching  him,  which  he  did  not  at  first  recog- 
nize as  that  of  his  aunt.  She  walked  slowly,  almost 
feebly.  Her  once  upright  form  had  a  slight  stoop, 
and  her  hair  was  nearly  white. 

She  recognized  him  at  once,  and  the  years  seemed  to 
drop  away  from  her  as  she  drew  herself  up  and  ap- 
proached him  with  her  old  decision  and  self-confidence. 

"  Richard  !  "  she  said,  "  you  here !  I  thought  it  was 
only  I  who  remembered." 

Richard  looked  down.  "  I  am  very  glad  you  have 
remembered,  Aunt  Henrietta,"  he  said,  awkwardly. 

"  I  think  of  her  more  and  more  as  the  years  go  by," 
she  answered.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  the  longer  I  live 
the  less  I  see  of  people  like  her.  She  was  so  good,  and 


RICHARD  BALDOCK 

she  made  others  good.  We  want  women  like  that  in  the 
world,  and  men  too.  We  are  all  so  selfish,  so  drearily 
selfish,  and  unhappy,  for  all  our  attempts  to  seize 
pleasure.  I  cannot  understand  why  she  should  have 
been  taken  away.  To  me  she  was  an  irreparable  loss." 

She  stood  for  a  little  time  looking  down  on  the 
grave.  Then  she  looked  up  at  him  with  her  old  air  of 
self-assured  command. 

"  But  I  am  very  disappointed  in  you,"  she  said. 
"  The  very  last  time  we  met,  and  it  was  years  ago,  we 
came  here  together,  and  I  thought  we  understood  one 
another  and  were  coming  together  again.  Why  did 
you  never  write  to  me  as  I  asked  you?  I  have  heard  no 
word  of  you  from  that  day  to  this.  Simply  a  short 
note  from  your  father  acknowledging  the  small  present 
I  made  you,  and  that  was  all." 

"  I  did  write,"  said  Richard.  "  I  wrote  to  you  twice, 
as  you  asked  me.  And  when  I  had  no  reply  I  left  off 
writing." 

"  You  wrote?  "  she  repeated.  "  Where  did  you  write 
to?" 

"  I  wrote  to  Bursgarth  Hall  in  Yorkshire,  as  you  told 
me  to." 

"  To  Burgarth?  Then  why  did  I  not  get  the  letters? 
Wait.  Let  me  think.  I  went  to  Aix  after  I  left  the 
yacht,  and  was  there  for  a  month.  But  letters  would 
have  been  forwarded,  were  forwarded.  Are  you  sure 
you  wrote  ?  " 

"  Yes.    Quite  sure.    I  wrote  twice  within  the  month." 

"  Then  there  must  have  been  some  stupid  blunder. 
I  do  not  understand  it.  My  husband  was  at  Bursgarth, 
and  sent  on  my  letters  himself.  He  is  punctilious  about 
those  things,  and  would  not  leave  it  to  a  servant." 

"  I  see,"  said  Richard. 


THE  END  OF  THE  STORY  425 

"  And  Laurence  was  there,  too,  but  he  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  redirecting  letters.  Well,  I  do  not 
understand  it.  It  is  very  unfortunate.  I  was  so  well 
disposed  towards  you,  remembered  you  with  pleasure, 
thought  that  our  misunderstandings  were  over,  my  mis- 
takes about  you  were  cleared  up  and  forgotten.  I 
hoped  to  have  seen  much  of  you  and  watched  your 
career.  I  own  I  put  down  your  silence  to  the  influence 
of  your  father.  I  was  annoyed.  I  said  to  myself, 
'  Very  well,  if  it  is  over,  it  is  over,'  and  put  you  out  of 
my  mind.  Now  I  hear  it  was  another  mistake.  I  am 
very  sorry  for  it,  very  sorry  indeed.  You  might  have 
been  much  to  me  and  helped  me  through  the  dull  years. 
But  we  must  begin  again,  Richard.  It  is  not  too  late, 
even  yet.  Come  and  sit  down,  and  tell  me  about  your- 
self. You  do  not  look  happy,  and  yet  I  believe  you 
are  doing  well,  for  I  do  hear  your  name  sometimes 
among  people  who  are  interested  in  literature  and 
art." 

They  sat  down  together  on  the  seat  under  the  yew 
tree,  and  Richard  told  her  something  of  his  life.  He 
spoke  quietly,  even  dejectedly,  and  she  watched  him  nar- 
rowly as  he  unfolded  his  tale. 

"  You  have  done  very  well,"  she  said.  "  It  is  agree- 
able to  me  to  hear  of  a  young  man  hard  at  work,  mak- 
ing his  own  way  in  the  world,  not  greedy  for  amusement. 
It  is  so  different  from  what  I  see  around  me.  But  it 
is  very  plain  that  your  success  does  not  satisfy  you. 
You  want  something  more.  How  old  are  you  now?  " 

"  Twenty-nine,"  he  told  her. 

"  Then  you  are  old  enough  to  marry.  I  should 
like  to  see  you  with  a  sweet  young  wife  at  your  side, 
and  little  children  to  gladden  your  life.  I  love  children 
so  dearly,  and  there  are  none  who  have  any  claims  on 


426  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

me.  How  I  should  like  to  have  children  around  me  now 
I  am  getting  old.  I  am  sure  you  ought  to  marry, 
Richard.  Have  you  not  thought  of  it  yourself?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  of  it  at  all,"  Richard  said,  shortly. 

"  I  suppose  your  life  is  too  full  to  leave  you  time  to 
go  among  people  from  whom  you  might  choose  a  wife. 
And,  living  as  you  do  in  that  poor  suburb  with  your 
father,  you  would  not  come  across  them.  But  you 
must  come  to  me,  Richard,  now  that  we  have  met  again 
in  friendliness.  We  must  not  let  any  further  mis- 
understandings part  us.  I  want  someone  of  my  own 
flesh  and  blood  near  me.  I  see  many  people.  I  will 
find  you  a  wife.  Like  most  elderly  women  I  am  a  con- 
firmed matchmaker." 

She  spoke  gaily,  but  Richard  answered  her  with  seri- 
ousness. "  Thank  you,  Aunt  Henrietta,"  he  said,  "  I 
should  like  to  see  you  sometimes,  but  I  cannot  come  to 
your  house.  I  may  as  well  say  it  frankly,  I  dislike 
Laurence  Syde,  and  he  dislikes  me.  I  will  never  go 
again  where  I  may  be  likely  to  meet  him." 

"  Have  you  met  Laurence  of  late  years?  "  she  asked, 
in  surprise. 

"  Yes.  And  we  never  meet  without  showing  our  con- 
tempt for  one  another." 

She  sighed  deeply.  "  I  will  not  ask  what  you  quarrel 
about,"  she  said.  "  I  can  understand  that  you  are 
antagonistic.  Your  lives  are  so  different.  You  are 
forming  your  character,  growing  stronger  and  more 
self-reliant  as  you  grow  older.  Laurence  is  selfish  to 
the  core.  I  have  been  forced  to  acknowledge  it  to  my- 
self. My  affection  for  him  is  dead,  and  it  is  a  bitter 
thought  to  me  that  I  have  had  something  to  do  with  the 
way  he  has  grown  up.  I  deeply  regret  my  indulgence 
of  him.  If  I  had  the  years  over  again  I  should  act  in 


THE  END  OF  THE  STORY  427 

a  very  different  way.  But  even  then  I  doubt  whether 
I  should  have  had  the  force  to  influence  him  towards 
goodness.  No,  I  am  afraid  not.  Life  is  full  of  trouble 
and  disappointment.  You  will  not  repeat  what  I  say. 
I  don't  know  why  I  say  it  to  you.  Outwardly  we  are 
good  friends — my  stepson  and  I,  but  we  are  nothing 
to  each  other,  nothing  real." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Aunt  Henrietta.  Of  course  I 
will  say  nothing." 

"  Even  now,"  she  went  on,  "  I  have  a  slight  hope  that 
he  may  yet  make  something  of  his  life.  He  is  going  to 
marry — I  hope  he  is  going  to  marry — a  very  sweet  girl 
who  may  change  the  whole  current  of  his  desires.  I 
believe  very  much  in  marriage  for  a  young  man,  if  it  is 
based  on  affection,  as  I  think  this  marriage  will  be.  The 
more  a  man  loves  his  wife  the  more  he  respects  himself. 
I  shall  do  everything  I  can  to  help  him  in  this." 

Richard's  heart  sank  like  lead.  "  I  suppose  you 
mean  that  he  is  going  to  marry  Miss  Ventrey,"  he  said 
in  a  low  voice. 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  Ah,  of  course,  you  knew 
her  here  as  a  child.  She  has  told  me  so.  She  is  the 
sweetest  girl.  And  so  true-hearted.  He  has  won  a 
great  prize,  and  I  hope  he  will  realize  how  fortunate 
he  has  been.  They  will  live  here,  I  hope,  and  the  influ- 
ence of  this  quiet,  beautiful  place  ought  to  steady  him 
and  make  him  hapy.  That,  and  the  companionship  of 
a  good  and  true  woman." 

Richard  was  quite  incapable  of  saying  a  word.  He 
had  not  known  that  there  was  any  spark  of  hope  left 
in  him  until  certainty  had  thus  robbed  him  of  every- 
thing. He  was  sick  at  heart,  and  longed  only  to  get 
away  by  himself,  away  from  every  human  voice,  and 
grapple  with  his  wretchedness.  It  was  with  a  dull  sense 


428  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

of  relief  that  he  heard  his  aunt  say,  "  Well,  I  must  go 
home.  Won't  you  come  with  me,  Richard?" 

He  refused,  braced  himself  up  to  say  good-bye  to  her 
without  giving  her  an  opportunity  of  remarking  on  his 
depression,  promised  to  write  to  her,  and  to  see  her  when 
she  would  be  again  in  London,  and  excused  himself  from 
accompanying  her  on  her  way  with  the  plea  that  he  did 
not  wish  to  meet  any  one  from  the  village,  and  was 
left  alone. 

He  made  his  way  across  the  fields  and  through  the 
woods  to  the  place  where  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
say  good-bye  to  his  hopes,  and  gather  strength  if  he 
could  to  go  on  with  his  life,  and  wear  down  his  dis- 
appointment. His  pain  was  so  great  that  he  felt 
physically  ill,  and  walked  with  difficulty.  So  this  was 
the  end  of  it  all !  He  was  not  only  to  lose  her,  but  to 
lose  her  to  a  man  whom  he  knew  to  be  utterly  unworthy 
of  her,  a  man — he  was  sure  of  it — who  wanted  her  more 
for  the  sake  of  what  she  could  bring  him  of  wealth  to 
help  him  to  pursue  his  selfish  pleasures  than  for  her  own 
dearness.  And  she  had  chosen  this  man,  deceived  by  his 
poor  surface  attractions,  blinded  to  his  faults  of  char- 
acter, and  would  be  tied  to  him  for  life,  wasting  all  her 
fine  qualities  on  one  who  was  incapable  of  recognizing 
them,  growing  sadder  as  the  years  went  by,  and  he  re- 
vealed Ir'j  baseness  to  her.  She  was  throwing  away  her 
happiness,  her  very  life,  and  he  who  loved  her  could 
do  notl  ing  to  warn  her.  He  was  the  only  one  of  all  who 
wished  her  well  who  was  debarred  from  warning  her. 

He  came  to  the  forest  clearing  where  he  had  first  met 
her,  .a  little  child,  as  free  and  innocent  as  the  birds,  the 
place  in  which  every  tree  and  bush  held  memories  of  her. 
The  old  house  with  its  quiet  gardens  lay  beneath  him, 
the  home  which  was  hers,  but  would  soon  be  hers  no 


THE  END  OF  THE  STORY  429 

longer,  which  would  change  its  character,  and  from 
which  all  the  gracious  memories  it  enshrined  would  be 
wiped  away  by  the  traffic  of  an  uneasy  life  of  pleasure. 
He  threw  himself  down  on  the  ground,  and  buried  his 
head  in  his  arms.  His  life  had  become  unsupportable. 
There  was  nowhere  to  look  for  a  gleam  of  light.  He 
was  surrounded  by  the  blackness  of  despair. 

He  did  not  know  how  long  he  lay  there.  He  could 
not  think  consecutively.  His  brain  seemed  to  be  numbed. 
Sometimes  a  gust  of  hopeless  anger  came  and  shook  his 
very  soul.  It  was  terrible  to  feel  so  helpless,  and  to 
know  that  the  days  would  go  on  and  carry  her  away 
from  him  irrevocably,  carry  her  to  what  he  knew  would 
be  a  life  of  unhappiness  and  disillusion.  He  tried  to 
think  of  something  he  could  do.  He  made  half-formed 
resolutions  of  going  to  her  and  telling  her  what  he  be- 
lieved to  be  the  truth  about  Laurence,  while  making  it 
clear  that  he  himself  had  nothing  to  hope  from  her. 
But  his  common  sense  rejected  the  idea.  If  she  loved 
him,  and  Lettice  was  not  a  girl  who  would  give  her 
hand  in  marriage  where  she  did  not  love,  she  would  be 
indignant,  scandalized.  He  would  lose  what  poor  rem- 
nants of  her  regard  were  still  left  to  him,  and  that  would 
be  the  only  result  of  his  interference.  No,  he  could  do 
nothing.  He  must  suffer  in  silence.  What  would  be 
would  be. 

Presently  he  lay  quite  still,  worn  out  with  the  storm 
of  feeling  that  had  swept  over  him.  The  peace  of  the 
quiet  forest  began  to  steal  over  him.  He  turned  his 
head  and  saw  the  long  shadows  of  the  summer  afternoon 
drawn  across  the  bright  grass,  heard  the  twitter  of  the 
birds  busy  with  their  small  activities,  smelt  the  sweetness 
of  the  bare  earth  and  the  woodland  growth,  and  found 
,-his  pain  soothed  somewhat,  its  edge  blunted  by  the  sym- 


430  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

pathy  which  he  had  long  since  learnt  to  feel  in  nature. 

Suddenly  he  was  aware  of  a  movement,  and  sprang 
up  from  the  grass  to  find  Lettice  herself  standing  before 
him.  She  stood  exactly  in  the  spot  in  which  he  had 
first  seen  her  as  a  child  many  years  before,  and  looking 
at  him  with  startled  eyes,  her  hand  on  her  breast. 
There  was  reason  for  her  surprise,  for  he  was  haggard 
with  suffering,  and  looked  as  if  he  had  come  out  of  a 
long  illness. 

"  Dick  1  "  she  said,  under  her  breath.  "  Are  you 
ill?" 

He  came  to  himself  at  the  sound  of  her  voice.  "  You 
startled  me,"  he  said.  "  No,  I  am  not  ill,  but  I  am  in 
great  trouble." 

He  paused,  and  she  still  looked  at  him,  but  without 
speaking.  "  I  ought  to  wish  you  happiness,  I  sup- 
pose," he  said.  "  God  knows  I  do.  I  would  give  my 
life  to  make  you  happy.  But  I  have  only  just  heard, 
and  the  news  has  been  too  much  for  me." 

A  blush  came  over  her  face.  "What  news?"  she 
asked.  "What  have  you  heard?" 

"  Must  I  say  it?  Well,  I  will.  I  must  get  used  to  it. 
I  have  just  met  my  aunt,  and  she  told  me  that  you  were 
going  to  marry  Laurence  Syde." 

The  blush  deepened.  "  I  am  not,"  she  cried.  "  It  is 
not  true."  And  then  again,  as  he  looked  at  her  in 
astonishment,  "  I  am  not.  I  know  they  wish  it,  but  it  is 
not  true." 

He  looked  at  her  earnestly,  and  saw  that  there  was  no 
reserve  behind  her  denial,  that  she  meant  it,  for  there 
was  no  mistaking  the  truth  when  you  looked  into  the 
depths  of  Lettice's  eyes.  An  enormous  weight  lifted  it- 
self from  his  mind  and  rolled  away  into  the  shadows  in 
which  he  had  walked.  He  lost  control  over  himself  and 


THE  END  OF  THE  STORY  431 

laughed  a  great  laugh,  and  went  on  laughing  until  the 
tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 

"  Dick,"  said  Lettice,  with  anxious  seriousness,  "  why 
do  you  behave  so  strangely?  " 

"  My  dear  child ! "  he  cried,  turning  towards  her. 
"  You  have  beckoned  me  out  of  hell.  Say  it  again. 
Tell  me  that  it  isn't  true." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  she  said.  "  But  you  are 
my  oldest  friend.  I  will  tell  you  the  truth.  He  has 
asked  me,  and  I  have  said  no.  I  could  never  have  said 
anything  else.  If  I  had  known  he  was  going  to  ask  me, 
I  should  not  have  come  here." 

"  How  glad  I  am  that  you  did,"  he  said.  "  I  might 
never  have  known.  For  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  see  you 
very  often.  Yes,  I  should  have  known,  but  it  might 
not  have  been  for  a  long  time." 

"Why  do  you  say  that  you  will  not  see  me?"  she 
asked.  "  Oh,  Dick,  how  you  have  changed.  We  were 
such  friends  when  I  was  a  child — here  in  this  very  place. 
Don't  you  remember,  Dick,  how  we  first  met,  just  as  we 
have  met  now?  But  how  different  it  was  then!  How 
can  you  say  after  all  these  years  that  we  shall  not  see 
each  other  again?  " 

"  You  make  it  rather  hard  for  me,  Lettice,"  he  said, 
soberly.  "  You  must  know  what  a  grief  it  is  to  me  that 
we  are  not  as  we  used  to  be  to  each  other.  We  can't  be. 
We  lead  utterly  different  lives.  If  I  try  to  come 
amongst  the  people  with  whom  you  live  I  only  suffer 
humiliation.  They  don't  want  me.  I  don't  want  them, 
either.  I  did  want  you,  but  think  what  it  has  been  the 
few  times  I  have  seen  you  in  London  this  summer,  and 
then  think  of  our  old  friendship,  here  in  the  forest. 
Think  of  the  last  time  we  met.  We  didn't  even  part 
as  friends." 


432  RICHARD  BALDOCK 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  that,  Dick,"  she  said  penitently. 
"  It  has  given  me  great  unhappiness  to  think  of  it.  But 
you  were  not  like  yourself.  I  hardly  knew  you,  there  in 
London.  I  wanted  to  be  friends,  but  you  blamed  me  as 

if Oh,  I  don't  know,  but  I  felt  sore  at  the  way 

you  spoke  to  me,  and — and  I  know  I  was  horrid  to 
you." 

"  I  shan't  think  anything  more  about  it,"  he  said. 
'*  You  have  made  me  happier  than  I  thought  I  could 
ever  be  again.  And  I  shall  always  remember  how  happy 
we  were  together  when  I  was  a  boy  and  you  were  a  child. 
And,  if  you  will  let  me,  I  will  always  be  your  friend,  and 
I  shall  hope  to  see  you  sometimes ;  but  not  in  London. 
We  are  too  far  apart  there.  Perhaps,  sometimes,  we 
shall  meet  here  in  the  old  forest.  We  can  see  each  other 
as  we  are  then,  and  forget  that  in  London  I  am  a  dull 
young  man  who  works  and  you  are  a  beautiful  young 
woman  who  plays,  and  are  surrounded  by  other  beau- 
tiful people  who  play  too,  as  I  never  can." 

He  ended  lightly,  but  devoured  her  face  with  his 
eyes,  wistfully,  for  the  shadow  of  loss  was  stealing  over 
him  again. 

Her  eyes  were  bent  on  the  ground.  A  faint  flush 
came  over  her  cheeks,  and  spread,  deepening.  She 
looked  up,  and  her  eyes  were  shining.  "  Do  you  remem- 
ber what  I  used  to  say  to  you  here  in  the  forest,  Dick?  " 
she  said,  bravely.  "  Tell  me  secrets." 


THE    END 


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